


Quick Slick Fic

by shiphitsthefan



Category: Charlie Countryman (2013), Ella Enchanted (2004), Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, The Big C (TV), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, Valhalla Rising
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alpha/Alpha, Alpha/Beta, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Beta/Beta, Beta/Omega, F/F, Hannibal Extended Universe, M/M, Multi, Omega/Omega, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, alpha/omega/omega
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2018-11-22 02:58:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 24,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11371182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan
Summary: Ficlets for #SummertimeSlick. Pairings/ratings listed below; summaries in chapters.1. Werewolf AU:Will/Hannibal; M2. New Kink Discovery:Lee/Nigel; E3. Scenting:Will/Hannibal; T4. Trope Tues:Alana/Margot; T5. Surprise Heat:Will/Hannibal; E; 1/26. Accidental Bonding:Will/Hannibal; E; 2/27. Popsicle:Jimmy/Brian; T8. Pool:Abigail/Freddie; E9. Vacation:Alana/Margot; T10. Beach Sex:Lee/Nigel; M; 1/311. Surprise Heat(wave):Lee/Nigel; E; 2/312. Storm:Lee/Nigel; M; 3/313. Trope Tues II:Will/Hannibal; T14. Un/Requited Love:Will/Hannibal; E15. Hobbit AU:Charmont/One Eye; T16. Slave Auction:Lee/Nigel; T17. Toys:Will/Hannibal; E18. Arranged Marriage:Bedelia/Will/Hannibal; E; 1/319. (Fem)preg:Bedelia/Will/Hannibal; E; 2/320. Body Worship:Bedelia/Will/Hannibal; E; 3/321. Oral Fixation:Lee/Nigel; M





	1. Day 1—Werewolf AU

**Author's Note:**

> I enjoyed the daily ficlet writing holiday challenge, so I decided to participate in another! Unlike _[Season's Eatings](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8740969),_ these ficlets—for the most part—will have nothing to do with each other. I also challenged myself to keep each one under 1k, or as close to 1k as possible.
> 
> Betaed by [Llewcie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Llewcie/pseuds/Llewcie/works); enabled by the deviants of the knitting circle; powered by avocado smoothies. Enjoy! <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When omega wolf Alana turns down alpha wolf Will, who is entering rut, Will goes to Hannibal for help.

Inviting Tobias for dinner had been a strategic risk. At least, Hannibal had assumed so, until his guest showed how utterly starved for recognition he was. Granted, Hannibal longed for the same acceptance, but he was hardly so forward and gauche as to talk about it over a first meal. Even if he were inclined to share his own loneliness, Hannibal would certainly not do so in such frank, unveiled language.

This was hardly a game, at all. Putting Will onto Tobias’ scent would prove a simple task. Hannibal was utterly bored with the whole endeavor. No wonder he couldn't shake off Franklyn.

Hannibal had excused himself to the kitchen to plate the dessert course when he noticed his phone blinking green, signifying a notification. Typically, he wouldn't check his phone at any point during a meal, shared or not, but the back of his neck prickled, as though another predator had entered his home uninvited. He flicked his eyes back toward the door to the dining room, then set down the dishes and unlocked his phone.

Three missed calls, all from Will. Interesting.

He was tapping the edge of his phone with his thumb while he considered what to do when he heard howling from the dining room, followed by shouting, and then the sound of cracking wood. Hannibal strode quickly from the kitchen, phone still in hand, to check on his dining table.

Much to his dismay, the weight of his guest being bodily slammed into it had broken the table in half. There were large splinters assaulting poor Leda; her swan had been utterly obliterated. Hannibal looked down at Tobias, who lay bleeding out on his floor, gurgling through what was left of his throat, arms futily holding his guts together. Tobias’ gaze flicked over toward the other end of the dining room, as though in warning, but Hannibal was well aware of who crouched in the corner panting.

To think that the fevered sweetness had been not encephalitis, but a swiftly approaching rut. Will acted as an omega human would, skittish and defensive; Hannibal had simply assumed that the lack of natural scent was due to Will being on suppressants. Either that, or Will was a beta like Hannibal, only odder and more emotional than most. The idea that Will might be not only a wolf, but an _alpha_ had never once crossed Hannibal's mind.

Hannibal quickly decided not to disclose his belief that Will's brain had been slowly burning itself out. It hardly mattered now, anyway.

“I would ask that you not hunt within the confines of my home without permission,” Hannibal said.

“It wasn't exactly my intention, Dr. Lecter.”

Hannibal hadn't looked at Will yet—he was curious, but not discourteous, though Tobias might have begged to differ. Instead, he stepped over his unfortunate guest, ignoring the way he grabbed at his pants leg, and began a closer, more thorough investigation of what remained of his favorite painting.

“Might I inquire as to what your intention _was,_ then?” asked Hannibal.

“I tried to call you,” Will began, “once I figured out what was happening. I thought you might be able to help me. It was—well, I kissed Alana is the thing.”

Hannibal's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. For an alpha wolf entering rut—or was he nearly full into it now?—Hannibal's surprised Will had the wherewithal to do no more than kiss.

“She's very kissable,” continued Will, panting less and less, “but she turned me down.”

“You wanted to mate her?” Hannibal tried to keep his distaste of the idea to himself.

“Not permanently, which I tried to explain, but she…” Will sighed. “Beyond not wanting to saddle herself up to an alpha, I'm not exactly mating material. Never mind that she didn't know.”

“I find that surprising, given her own nature.” Hannibal plucked a toothpick-sized splinter from Leda’s hair. “Surely one wolf should know another when the season calls.”

Will laughed ruefully, and Hannibal heard him slump down to the floor, the clicking of his claws giving him away. “During my shifts, I keep to myself.”

“There are hormone shots that—”

“They’re unethical,” Will snapped. The fear that ran through Hannibal’s body was foreign, but there was no denying the way the gnashing of Will’s fangs was not only thrilling, but terrifying, as well. “Not everyone in those prisons are guilty; forensic science isn’t exact. I would rather deal with the pain. It’s only twice a year. Regardless,” he continued, “I've tried hard all my life to hide it. I fit in less with a pack then I do with humans.”

“And yet you keep a pack of your own.” Hannibal turned his head to look at Will, now that he'd made himself somewhat comfortable.

His breath caught. Will was _beautiful._

All of his clothes were ripped—Will was obviously uncomfortable with his altered form to leave them on despite their state of disrepair. He wore no shoes, however; it would have been impossible for him to do so whether Will desired to or not. His feet had elongated, the bones reattaching themselves to the tibia at a severe vertical angle. A long curved claw protruded from his heel; likewise, his toes had grown out, more bone than flesh, sharp and deadly as the ones on his hands. Will’s jaw had lengthened, too, and his skull was more canine than human; it fit with his changed voice, all guts and gravel. Fur grew in a thick triangular patch down his back, and a smaller one down his chest. As for Will’s hair, it was longer, messier, curlier, almost a mane.

Hannibal swallowed. His face had betrayed him, if Will’s fierce smile could be trusted.

“You like what you see,” said Will. He shifted into a crouch so quickly that all Hannibal saw was a blur.

“Yes,” Hannibal replied breathily. “Very much so.”

“Maybe being provoked by a fertile omega during my rut wasn’t so bad, after all.” His hands flattened further as Will leaned forward and put them on the floor. “Perhaps you can help me in another way—I can hear your heartbeat, you know. It’s getting faster.” Will leered as he said, “I can smell you, too, and Dr. Lecter, you are _extremely_ aroused.”

It only made him harder, being so easily discovered. “How do you normally spend your ruts?”

“I’m not sure you want the answer to that question,” replied Will, and Hannibal decided that he didn’t. “Are you going to stand off against me, your fellow predator, or will you submit?”

Hannibal stood taller. “You know.”

“Of _course_ I know,” Will scoffed. “A wolf remembers how humans taste, no matter how long it’s been.” He crept closer. “And it had been a very, _very_ long time.”

On the floor, Tobias took his last breath. “I have never been hunted before,” said Hannibal. “I believe I would enjoy being prey for once.”

“Then I suppose I’ll give you a head start.”

“If you must.”

Will’s grin grew wider, and Hannibal knew that his own matched. “You better start running.”

Hannibal did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[post on tumblr](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/162487039024/summertimeslick-werewolf-au-alpha-wolf)]


	2. Day 2—New Kink Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nigel loves coming home to the sound of his mate laughing. Today, he’s loving it more than usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the lovely comments so far! :D
> 
> This feels like a good time to mention that male omegas are intersex. I'm so happy to see that beginning to catch on! <3
> 
> Warning for mentions of chemotherapy and use of medical marijuana.

Nigel has seen _The Emperor’s New Groove_ more times than he can count at this point. It’s Lee’s go-to movie after chemo, when he’s high on the good stuff that the Chief of Ds hooked Nigel up with so Lee wouldn’t get arrested and Nigel wouldn’t get kicked off the force or, worse, stuck riding a desk or, worse still, shipped back home to a desk there. Nigel wishes he could hook _himself_ up, trade lazy smoke back and forth with Lee, just enough to get him through to the end credits.

It's not that the movie is bad; for a kid flick, Nigel almost enjoys it. He'd just rather come home to Lee’s subtitled porn cartoons, instead.

As he closes the door behind him with his foot, Nigel unloads his pockets into the waiting hands of the concrete Buddha statue on the bookshelf. His jacket gets draped over the recliner in their tiny apartment; his shoes are toed off and left beneath the glass-top coffee table. They may relegate all of the smoking to the spare bedroom, but that doesn’t completely mask the odor. Nigel could just follow his nose and find his omega. Either that, or follow the sound of John Goodman’s voice.

Lee is giggling when Nigel pushes open the bedroom door. It’s Lee’s favorite scene, the one where Crunk or Zonk or whatever the character’s name is attempts to be sneaky. Nigel watches him there, curled up and nesting among his absurd number of floor pillows, eyes red-rimmed and grin goofy, wearing an old pair of flannel pajama pants and a white knit blanket.

The scene should be more heart-warming than arousing, but Nigel can’t deny the stirring heat in his belly. Lee looks good enough to eat, sure, but his _laugh_ is what’s tempting Nigel. There’s not been a significant amount of real, true laughter in Nigel’s life. Even if there had been, Lee’s happiness would still be the best he’d ever heard.

It’s never hit him quite so hard as it does right now, though.

“Are you ticklish?” he asks from the doorway, and Lee gasps and jumps.

“Holy shit,” says Lee, pausing the movie. “You almost killed me.”

Nigel snorts. “Cute,” he says as he undoes his pants with one hand before letting them drop to the floor. “Just fucking adorable.”

“Of course I am.” Lee smiles up at him, stretching out his arm. “Get down here, you.”

He unholsters his gun, and Lee rolls his eyes; it’s another habit Nigel can't seem to shake, leaving his piece out of immediate sight. “You like me dangerous,” says Nigel, putting the gun on the desk with one hand while he takes his badge from around his neck with the other.

Lee smirks. “You smuggling a second gun or are you—”

“Happy to see you, darling.” Nigel chuckles, taking Lee’s still offered hand, lowering himself to his knees, straddling Lee's hips. “Always happy to see you,” and he puts his palms on the floor on either side of Lee's head. His lips are soft, face upturned to Nigel’s, chasing his mouth when Nigel pulls away, so Nigel gives up and keeps kissing him.

They're tangled up in Lee's nest when Nigel remembers how affected he'd been by Lee's laugh. Without warning, Nigel wiggles his fingertips along Lee's side, just beneath his ribs and down to the waistband of his pants.

Nigel expects sputtered laughter, or his name squeaked out in between Lee slapping his hand away. He hadn't foreseen the surprised little moan. Curious, Nigel increases the pressure of his fingers ever so slightly. Lee starts to laugh, but he's squirming like he can't figure out whether to move away from Nigel’s touch or push into it.

The sudden smell of slick goes straight to Nigel’s knot.

“You like that, gorgeous?” he asks, teasing his fingers up into Lee's armpits, watching his omega toss his head back, exposing the long tan expanse of his throat. “Feel good?”

Lee nods, groaning, his hips shifting against Nigel’s, their cocks rubbing together through two layers of fabric. The sweet scent of Lee's slick curls into Nigel’s nostrils, drips down onto his tongue. All he can think about is tasting it for himself.

“I walked in here and heard you giggling,” begins Nigel, moving his fingers back to Lee's soft belly—he's still too thin, but much healthier than he had been at his sickest, and maybe that's what Nigel likes the most about Lee's laugh, the proof that he's not just alive but _living._ “It makes me feel like a good alpha,” he continues, “always does, but today, it was the sexist goddamn thing I'd ever heard. And now that I know you like being tickled?”

Lee ruts against him; the weed makes him even less shameless than he usually is. “I'm in trouble now, aren't I?” he asks two syllables at a time, in between giggles and tiny hums of pleasure.

“The best kind,” assures Nigel. He coaxes Lee onto his back and onto a row of throw pillows, though Lee whines pitifully when Nigel pulls them apart from each other. While Lee's trying to catch his breath, Nigel unties and pulls off Lee's pants. Nigel lies down between the vee of Lee's open legs—“Fuck, baby, you smell so fucking good.”

“Good enough to ea—oh _God,_ Nigel, _yes.”_

And Lee is delectable, ripe as a peach, his cunt soaked, like it had just been waiting for Nigel’s mouth. Lee clenches his thighs around Nigel’s head, grinding himself against Nigel’s face, riding his mouth. He grabs one of Lee's hands and guides it to his cock, and they jerk Lee off together. While Lee is distracted, Nigel snakes his other hand up and starts to tickle Lee's stomach again, and he comes, laughing hysterically as he does.

Nigel keeps tongue-fucking Lee, leaving him to keep masturbating while Nigel digs in and tickles Lee’s sides with both hands. Fuck his own ridiculous hard-on for now. Nigel has no intention of making Lee stop laughing and sighing and smiling and coming anytime soon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[post on tumblr](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/162522477209/summertime-slick-new-kink-discovery-alpha)]


	3. Day 3—Scenting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will doesn’t understand Hannibal’s predilection for scenting him.

Will’s not sure he’ll ever get used to how much his boyfriend likes to smell him, even though he’s more than amenable to it. Maybe if he was an omega like Hannibal, or better yet, an alpha. But Will is a beta, and there’s no supernatural scent sense that comes along with being a member of the third dynamic.

It had never bothered Will before; how could he miss a sense he’d never had? Will had resigned himself to a life of normal nostrils and probable celibacy because of it; people didn’t exactly take to him, regardless of dynamic. Even if he  _ had _ been a likable person, Will would have been limited to dating betas, living a scentless life together. His empathy disorder more than made up for his lack of hormonal smell, putting him on more of an even footing with alphas and omegas than most. That didn’t mean one would want to throw their lot in with a beta, however, especially when that same disorder made him bristly and off-putting.

And then Will met Hannibal, or rather, Hannibal chased Will across the quad and introduced himself.

“Pardon my incivility, but you smell exceptional,” Hannibal had said, smoothing his tie back down, straightening his waistcoat. Will’d never seen another student carry a satchel, though Hannibal’s was in much better condition than his own.

“I shouldn’t,” Will had replied. “I just showered.”

Hannibal had smiled and offered his arm. “May I walk you to class?”

That evening, in the library, Beverly had explained that Hannibal was very forward for an omega, that he carried himself more like an alpha, but Will just shrugged it off. Hannibal was Hannibal, and that was already unusual enough.

Four months later, and Hannibal has relaxed almost entirely around Will. He displays more omegan traits now than he did before. Hannibal always wants to touch or to be touched, for instance, which Will thought he would not only mind, but  _ hate. _ As it turned out, they were both starved for physical attention, and they’ve had difficulty keeping their hands to themselves ever since.

Beyond his inability to be apart from Will, the most telling difference is in how often Hannibal leans in and smells him. At first, Will thought Hannibal only did it to make him smile, since Will had confessed how warm and accepted and  _ normal _ being scented made him feel. He’d stopped wearing his aftershave soon after, at Hannibal’s encouragement, and then Hannibal scenting Will when they were together happened more and more frequently.

One night, after Hannibal had snuck him into the omega dorm after hours, Will woke up to find Hannibal’s nose tucked into the join of Will’s neck and shoulder, breathing deeply as he slept. There aren’t even any scent glands there to produce a smell, so Will has no idea what there was—or is—for Hannibal to appreciate. When he’d asked, Hannibal had given him an odd look, but didn’t explain. It couldn’t be a coincidence that Hannibal had taken to more overt displays of affection afterward, though; Hannibal scents Will in public twice as often now as he had before.

If Will could only sense whatever it is that makes alphas pause and sniff at the air when Hannibal walks by, maybe Will would understand. All he smells when his own nose is pressed to Hannibal’s throat is the crisp, clean scent of laundry soap and the ever-present aroma of charcoal pencil and oil pastel from the university’s art studios.

It reminds him of home, which is dumbfounding, since Hannibal smells nothing like the river Will grew up on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[post on tumblr](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/162559334824/summertimeslick-scenting-beta-willomega)]


	4. Day 4—Trope Tuesday (Fake Date)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being an unmateable and infertile beta is dangerous, and Margot’s current fear is justified. It’s a good thing that betas look out for each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time writing Marlana! I might be slightly obsessed with them now.
> 
> Warning for stalking and fear of assault (not between Alana and Margot).

The bald man stinks of alphan arousal. Worse, he’s been tailing Margot since she got on the subway. She knows what he desires, because she isn’t an omega. Margot isn’t mateable. There’s only one thing an alpha wants when it comes to a beta, especially a female beta.

They can’t get pregnant, after all. The police look the other way—only omegas need protecting, are important. Betas are the perfect prey.

Margot is terrified, and she has every reason to be.

She ducks into a diner, orders a dollar-fifty coffee that was likely brewed this morning, doesn’t drink it. The alpha leans against the lamp post outside, leering, smiling. Margot watches the sky begin to turn purple as the sun sets. She leaves another dollar beneath the beige mug and walks out, dodges his hand as he grabs for her arm, walks faster and faster still.

He keeps pace, just far enough away to not draw attention. Margot wants to go home, but she doesn’t want the alpha to know where she lives.

Panicked, Margot pushes the door open to a hookah bar, a hipster joint on a gentrified block. This is exactly the kind of place she’d never go, especially in her work heels, her pencil skirt, her scarved blouse. Apparently, it’s somewhere the man behind her would want to hang out, because he follows Margot inside; the door swinging shut sounds like a judge’s mallet sealing her fate.

Margot is riveted to his eyes, looking over her shoulder, and she bumps into someone.

“Hey, Katharine!” the woman says, and Margot turns her head, confused. “I’m so glad you could make it,” she continues; her smile is warm and calming, and Margot feels herself relaxing. “I thought maybe you’d changed your mind.”

She takes a deep breath; she can play along. “After that last date? How could I.”

The woman pecks her on the cheek. “Come on; I’ve already got the hookah fired up.”

Margot’s savior stares over her shoulder, her blue eyes turned to steel. The man’s growl is audible, but so is the sound of the bar’s door slamming shut. Margot slumps into the woman’s arms, and she catches her, lets Margot cry into the join of her neck, Margot’s head lying on her bare shoulder.

“It’s okay,” the woman says. “You’re safe now.” Margot takes a deep breath, smells nothing but a light floral conditioner in her soft brown hair.

 _Another beta. Thank God._ “Thank you so much.”

“No problem, at all. We betas have to look out for each other.” She rubs Margot’s back—it’s the best hug Margot’s ever had. “Stay in here for awhile. He’ll get bored eventually.”

“I thought I was stronger than this,” says Margot. “I’ve taken a self-defense course. Christ, I deal with knotheads all day at the office.”

The beta pulls away to look at Margot. “Are you kidding me? You’re amazingly strong. Kept a clear head; found your way to safety; defended yourself. I’m awed, to be honest.” And she _looks_ awed, gazing at Margot like _she’s_ the heroic one. Her thumb comes up to rub a tear off of Margot’s cheek.

“I’m Margot,” she whispers. “If you’re going to save me, you should at least know my name.”

The woman laughs, her hand dropping to Margot’s shoulder. “You’re beautiful. I’m Alana.”

Margot smiles for the first time in over an hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[post on tumblr](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/162590645844/summertimeslick-trope-tuesday-beta-alanabeta)]
> 
> Days five and six of the fest are going to be ficlets for _[Priority One](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10445265),_ so make sure you check over there! We'll pick up back here on Friday. :)


	5. Day 7—Surprise Heat (1 of 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ♪♫ Heat in an el-e-va-tor; knottin’ it up while they’re go-in’ dowwwn ♪♫

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back over here, now that I've accidentally broken you all with the _[Priority One](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10445265)_ days five and six updates. It really wasn't my intention. Honestly. I promise.
> 
> Here's a prelude to porn to make up for it! <3

His IUD had shifted and was misaligned in his uterus, because of course it had. The gynecologist said that it would have to be removed, because of course it did. He couldn’t replace the damn thing for at least three months, because of course he couldn’t.

And now, Will is waiting for the elevator, and his first heat in three years is barreling into him like a freight train on steroids, because of course it is. Will canceled his afternoon classes for this privilege, and he’ll have to cancel them through next week because of a goddamn surprise heat, like he’s one of his students begging for an extension because they’d conveniently lost track of their cycle. His fingers shake as he types out a quick message to post on the group boards; Will thinks he hits send, but it’s a toss-up at this point.

They’d given him a pad after his exam, but Will’s pretty sure he’s going to soak through. Both the doctor and the nurse had offered him a knot plug to get him home, but Will knew from experience that it would only make his symptoms worse, and they’re terrible enough already.

Sweat is rolling down the back of his neck—he loosens his tie and the collar of his shirt enough to still look halfway put together. His gut feels like the inside of a poorly-tuned kettle drum; it’s certainly loud enough to be one, gurgling with the promise of nausea. Will’s heart is racing, and his chest heaves with his struggled breathing, and there’s absolutely no way he’s going to be able to drive home. He certainly can’t take the bus in this state. Even calling for an Uber is too risky, and that leaves Will with exactly zero options.

He has always been sensitive to hormone shifts, but this is fucking ridiculous.

Another two or three minutes pass before Will realizes that he never pushed the call button. Reaching for the button is enough movement to encourage a fresh gush of slick, and yes, he is absolutely going to soak through the pad. Will leans forward to rest his forehead on the dark tile wall, and then turns his face to press his cheek against it, savoring the sensation of cool ceramic on his burning skin.

“Mr. Graham?”

And of course this situation could get worse, because that’s the arousing accented voice of Dr. Lecter, his absurdly attractive and extremely alpha gynecologist. Will bites his lip bloody to keep from whining, and hopes emergency kegels are enough to keep him from pushing his hips away from the wall to present.

“You left your jacket and satchel,” Dr. Lecter says. “I’d hoped to catch you before you left.”

“Well,” and Will huffs a rueful laugh, “you’ve gone and caught me.”

A pause wide enough for an approaching tank. “Have you already entered heat?”

Will risks opening an eye to glance over at the man he’s absolutely never, ever thought about while masturbating. He looks exactly as Will left him: slate-gray waistcoat; white dress shirt, sleeves cuffed up to rest just below his elbow; a wide-knotted (oh God, knotted) crimson tie with a pattern that Will only recognizes as “not plaid”. A few stray hairs have fallen to lie against his forehead—he must have mussed his hair jogging to the elevator, because Dr. Lecter hasn’t messed up his perfect coif as long as Will’s been trusting him with his care.

“Mr. Graham?”

“Yes, sorry.” Will shakes his head, but it only makes his vision blur. “Yes, my body seems to be making up for lost time.”

He takes a tentative step forward. “May I check your pulse? I would feel your forehead, but I believe that would be redundant. You’ve obviously feverish.”

“Don’t suppose you have any water, do you?”

Dr. Lecter blinks, like he’s processing the question, and it occurs to Will for the first time that his gynecologist was likely unprepared to deal with a patient in heat. There’s a reason only the omega and beta nurse practitioners on his staff are the only ones allowed to deal with mid-heat omegas. Will’s probably putting off enough pheromones to attract every hot-blooded and unbonded alpha in proximity. Dr. Lecter certainly smells delicious enough.

“A fountain,” says Dr. Lecter, and he steps out of view for a moment. When he returns, his hands are cupped full of water. “I apologize for the overfamiliarity, but I don't see another option.”

“You could've helped me over to the fountain.” Dr. Lecter must be truly addled by Will's scent. Then again, Will figures he triggered some bit of the man's lizard brain by asking for him to provide Will with water.

“Yes. Yes, I could have.” Will watches his nostrils flare and his eyelids slip slightly down, and fuck it, Will’s wanted this man since his first post-heat contraceptive consultation. When Will opens his mouth expectantly, Dr. Lecter subtly groans, almost so quietly that Will can’t hear it. The water is cold and crisp; Will lets him tip it into his mouth, and doesn’t begrudge his chin the drops that roll down it.

Will sighs as he presses his cheek back to the wall. “Thank you, Dr.—”

“Please, call me Hannibal.”

“What if I called you alpha?” Will asks. He tries for a smirk, but the cramps roll through his abdomen again and he nearly buckles over. But Hannibal’s arms are there to catch him, and Will’s pressing his face into Hannibal’s neck before he can stop himself. His voice is strained and muffled as he says Hannibal’s name.

Hannibal raises a hand to the back of Will’s head, rubbing his fingers against his skull, massaging Will’s scalp. “I’m going to take you home—to  _ your _ home,” he clarifies, “and call a heat nurse for you. I won’t take advantage of you, tempting as you may be.”

Will chokes back a sob; Hannibal’s touch is as comforting as it is torturous as his body responds. His hand is so close to where Will needs it, on the back of his neck, easing him into submission. He feels slick slipping down the insides of his thighs. “Not advantage,” says Will. “I’ve—I’ve wanted you, Hannibal.”

“As I have desired you, Will.” His arms tighten around Will, a delicious pressure; he moans, and Hannibal answers it softly. “I promise you, this was not my intention when you came for your appointment today. As difficult as it has been to maintain professionality around you, I would not wish for your suffering. The waiting period truly is three months. In spite of your medical history, I had no idea your heat would arrive so quickly.”

The elevator finally,  _ finally _ dings beside them as it arrives. Will clings to Hannibal as he maneuvers them inside and presses the button for the ground floor. His lips brush against Hannibal’s scent glands as Will tries to speak, but the small room afforded by the elevator car has caused their respective scents to mingle. They’re in a box of hormones, and Will has no idea how he’ll survive the ride down without tearing Hannibal’s clean-cut suit pants off of his body.

Hannibal shushes him and rubs his back when Will begins to whimper and shake. “I smell us, too,” he says. “Your heat scent is…” and all Hannibal does is breathe and take in their compatible pheromones, just as Will is doing.

When the elevator jerks, Hannibal loses his balance and slips down the wall, dragging Will down with him. The car lurches to a stop, and it doesn’t start moving again.

Because of course it doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[post on tumblr](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/162755758084/summertimeslick-surprise-heat-omega-willalpha)]


	6. Day 8—Accidental Bonding (2 of 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ♪♫ Heat in an e-le-va-tor; knottin’ it up ‘til they hit the grounnnd ♪♫

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, the porn!
> 
> Warnings for mildly dubious consent, because heat sex. Will is also on the autism spectrum, in case that might be a trigger.

Most omegas prefer small spaces; even omegists begrudgingly agree that the trait is a biological imperative and not a necessity forced on omegas by an alphiarchal society. Single or unmated omegas often live in self-made communities, such as a floor or building full of one-room apartments, or a small house with shared bedrooms. There’s even a waiting list for a gated neighborhood of tiny houses affectionately referred to as Hobbiton.

Will, on the other hand, does not like small spaces whatsoever.

“Where—where’s my bag?” Will isn’t sure if his hands are shaking because of his heat or because he’s been triggered. “Need my k—keys, my keyring, please, alpha.”

Hannibal shifts them so they’re sitting in the corner of the elevator car, kicking off his shoes in the process. He points his toes and grabs Will’s satchel by hooking his foot into the handle, then drags it over.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Hannibal says, alpha dominance soaking into his words. They’re still gentle, though, washing over Will like a ripple of stream water instead of a wave.

But Will shakes his head—there’s time to talk about being hospitalized later, about his spectrum diagnosis and the accompanying difficulties and depression. Right now, Will needs his fidget cube, and he needs a knot, and he’d forgotten how much pain he was in when he began to panic over being stuck in an elevator. He’s crying even as a fresh gush of slick soaks through the seat of his pants.

Hannibal kisses the top of his head. The arm around Will tightens, and he takes Will’s wrists in his large, strong hand. With the other, he searches Will’s satchel, finally procuring and presenting the keyring. Will snatches it from Hannibal’s fingers, leaning back as much as he is able as Hannibal begins to rub his belly. But the cube and the pressure and Hannibal’s scent just aren’t enough; his senses are simply too overloaded.

“Help me,” and his voice sounds pitiful to his own ears.

“Will.” Hannibal stops rubbing Will long enough to grip his chin, forcing Will’s face up, making their eyes meet. “Will, I need your consent.” His amber eyes are ringed blood red, pupils dilated. Hannibal looks like a wild beast—Will’s hips jerk up of their own accord, humping the air, seeking Hannibal’s touch. “Focus, love. Focus.”

“Love?” Even in his haze of terror and heat sickness, Will recognizes the weight of that word.

“Since the moment I saw you,” whispers Hannibal. “I never knew you felt it, too, the pull and hunger of a perfect biological equal.”

“What are you—” Will moans and sobs with his pain. “Autism,” he tells Hannibal, because who would want to mate an especially unstable omega.

“If you don’t wish me to, then I won’t claim you,” Hannibal says. “Not yet, at least; not in an elevator; not when you can barely consent. But I accept all of you, Will, every piece of your medical chart.”

Will whines; he never thought being understood would be so erotic. His heat? Who cares. “Take me, alpha. Make it better.”

With a growl, Hannibal’s on him, gripping the back of Will’s neck and forcing him to the floor. He lies over top of Will, and the pressure is  _ exquisite, _ but still not enough, not enough, not  _ enough.  _ Will continues to click his cube, even as Hannibal holds his wrist down, arms stretched out in front of him.

“What does my omega need?” asks Hannibal, his voice as rough as Will feels.

“Force me.” Because that’s what Will needs, for his mind to go blank, for his muscles to relax, for—

Hannibal clamps his knees around Will’s thighs, and bites the nape of his neck. He worries the skin and the muscle, making Will’s head toss to the side, and Will goes boneless. The fidget cube slips from his fingers, but he doesn’t care. There’s a strong, dominant alpha who’s captured him, and nothing else matters besides satiation.

Will lifts his ass, pushing against Hannibal’s cock, rutting as he tries desperately to present. There’s only coiling heat in his cunt, dripping, soaking wet. All he exists for is his alpha; all he wants is to be bred and filled and full. “Knot?”

A tongue laps against the bite marks; Will can smell his own blood, and it only serves to stoke the flames. “What a sweet voice my innocent little omega has.”

“Knot?”

Hannibal doesn’t bother to unbutton Will’s pants, just rips them off, tearing his underwear in half, just enough to expose Will’s cunt. Sweat drips from Will’s hair, sliding down his forehead to the carpet he rests his cheek upon. He hears Hannibal’s zipper, though, and  _ oh, _ how nice it would be to be kept nude and waiting, like a properly mated omega, made only to be loved and cherished and played with and everything else unmated omegas fight against and he wants it, Will  _ wants it, _ and he doesn’t care if it’s the manipulation of his heat or not.

Will’s hips are pushed back down to the floor, and he’s grateful for the layer of fabric between his already pulsing cock and the carpet. Hannibal pushes in, slides in, and it’s the best thing Will’s ever felt, smothered under the weight of a virile alpha, taken beyond his control. All he has to do is lie there and let Hannibal take his pleasure from his overstimulated, blissed body.

“Look how beautifully you submit for me,” says Hannibal, his voice as hot as Will’s belly, his thrusts short but brutal, never quite hitting Will’s prostate, no matter how tightly his cunt grips Hannibal’s cock. “You were made to be kept, to breed, and I have known and suffered with that knowledge from the moment I examined you.”

“Yes!” Will’s voice is pitched higher than he ever thought possible, and he can’t think enough through the growing cloud of hormones in his brain to make sentences. “Breed!”

“Your heat will be so long,” he tells Will, “so intense and painful, lovely omega. You’ll beg for my knot, won’t you?”

“Knot?” Hannibal snaps his teeth beside Will’s ear—such a feral creature, his alpha! “Please. Please, knot!”

He pushes in one last time, emptying deep inside Will, and then Hannibal keeps grinding, his swollen knot rubbing against Will’s prostate for the first time since Hannibal began to fuck him. The carpet is burning the side of Will’s face, but the texture feels good through the soft cotton of his underwear, teasing the underside of his cock. Between that and Hannibal’s relentless pounding and snarling, Will comes with a shriek.

Hannibal’s teeth sink into Will’s scent glands, and Will is euphoric. At least, he is, until he comes down from the swirling high of his endorphins, Hannibal still filling him up, the thickness of Hannibal’s knot still stimulating his prostate.

“Thought you weren’t going to.” Will pants and squirms as much as he is able as he comes again—he’s lost track of how many, but it’s been enough for his come to squeeze out of the top of his underwear and onto his stomach.

“I apologize,” says Hannibal, muffled. He’s still chewing the side of Will’s neck, and Will remembers the excited smile Hannibal always has when he greets Will in the office, how it exposes Hannibal’s sharp teeth, his fangs, and Will feels his cunt begin to milk Hannibal’s cock. “Though I must confess that I feel no regret.”

“Can’t say that I do, either.” Will’s eyes flutter shut even as he hears Hannibal swallow. “Are you...Hannibal, are you drinking my blood?”

Hannibal finally pulls away, licking over the wound just as he had on the back of Will’s neck. “You have the most astonishing effect on me, Will. I find myself incapable of resisting the pull of you body.”

“Huh.”

“We can break the bond still,” suggests Hannibal, though he returns to lapping at Will’s neck after making a series of pained noises. “I am not an animal—”

Will chuckles. “You sure about that?” He hums happily and extends his neck for Hannibal’s searching mouth. “Because I think I like the monster beneath your gynecologist suit. You're stuck with me now, problems and all.”

“Then I am a lucky alpha, indeed.” He feels Hannibal smile against the raw skin of the mating bite. “And you are no problem, Will, no matter what you may think.”

The elevator lurches.

“Um, Hannibal?” Will wiggles again, and Hannibal takes the opportunity to crane his neck enough to finally kiss Will for the first time. He tastes blood in Hannibal’s mouth, and his hips cant.

Hannibal sucks on Will’s bottom lip, pulling it as he breaks the kiss, his teeth dragging on the sensitive flesh. “What is it?” he murmurs before stealing another quick kiss.

The elevator begins to move.

“How long until your knot goes down?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[post on tumblr](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/162755762779/summertimeslick-accidental-bonding-omega)]
> 
> Tomorrow's ficlet will be over at _[Priority One](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10445265)._ See you there! :D


	7. Day 10—Popsicles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Jimmy fellates that popsicle any harder, Brian's going to have a stroke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jimmy Price and Scott Thompson are basically the same person and you will never, ever convince me otherwise.

Jimmy is twenty years his senior, and no one ever lets Brian forget that.

It’s unusual—backwards, Brian hears, in shushed tones when Jimmy convinces him to go to parties—for the alpha to be younger than the omega, never mind  _ two decades _ younger. There are times when Brian can barely believe it himself, how a passing-for-beta man like himself managed to catch the most flamboyant omega that’s ever lived. He’s so, so lucky, even if Jimmy doesn’t want to mate, but that makes the rumors and whispers around the office water cooler all the worse.

“Don’t worry about it,” Beverly always tells him. “You know Freddie in PR is dating that intern in the mailroom, right?”

“Thirty and twenty isn’t that big a stretch,” Brian would reply. “And their dynamic is, y’know, the right way ‘round.”

Because Jimmy is pushing sixty, getting ready to retire, planning trips to Jamaica and Hawaii and some ritzy place in Greece. He’s been saving for retirement since the day he started working for Crawford Computing, the very definition of an independent omega.

Brian feels like he’s nothing more than a pleasant distraction these days, a recent and unwelcome development. All he’s longed to do for the past five years is claim the man who claimed him without ever taking a bite, to get down on his knees for an entirely different reason. But he knows Jimmy doesn’t want that, has never wanted that. If leaving and roaming the world on his own is what will make Jimmy happy, then Brian’s prepared to let him go.

_ God. _ Love is terrible.

Almost as bad as the company cookout, which Brian wanted to skip and Jimmy dragged him to, anyway. Jimmy looks like he’s having a good time, though, social butterfly that he is. Brian stands awkwardly around next to the drinks like he’s still in high school, watching Jimmy flit from group to group, laughing and smiling. He catches Brian’s eye once in awhile; he knows Brian has weird social boundaries, understands that he’s a little bit of a creeper and likes to watch. At clubs, Jimmy will dance and grind like he’s half his age, and it’s the hottest fucking thing Brian’s ever seen.

Right now, Jimmy’s not dancing; instead, whenever he’s sure that Brian’s looking, he licks the goddamn gourmet blueberry popsicle he’s holding in the most lascivious way that he possibly can in polite company. He hollows his cheeks when no one else is watching and sucks on it, eyes full of mischief, just like when he makes Brian fuck his mouth. Brian’s never seen anyone deep throat a popsicle before, but he’s dead sure that he will before the party’s over.

When Jimmy’s almost polished off his popsicle, he makes his way over to Brian, who is now sitting with his legs crossed, trying not to pop his knot when he’s surrounded by coworkers. Brian’s breaking out in a nervous sweat, the collar of his business-casual polo sticking to the back of his neck. It could be the sun, but he knows that it’s just Jimmy in his tight jeans and his little orange tee, like he’s fresh out of college instead of a few months short of his sixth decade.

“I’d be jealous of me, too,” says the shirt. Classic Jimmy.

He plops himself down in Brian’s lap, one arm thrown around Brian’s neck. “You know this is a luau, right?” he asks. Jimmy’s eyebrows pop up, push the wrinkles on his forehead up to his hairline. His smirk is delicious—Brian wants to kiss it right off of his face.

“Pretty sure this is a luau, yeah.” Brian wraps an arm around Jimmy’s back, one hand gripping his thigh, protective, possessive. He doesn’t intend to scent his boyfriend, but Brian does. Cedar; rose; amber. Brian didn’t intend to surreptitiously lick over Jimmy’s scent glands, but he does that, too.

Jimmy hums and relaxes against Brian’s mouth. “Ohhhh, now  _ I’m _ not sure where we are.”

“Is it that kind of party?”

“Not today,” Jimmy says. He wiggles a little in Brian’s lap. “Maybe tomorrow, or in the Bahamas. How do you feel about the Bahamas, baby?”

Brian gives Jimmy’s neck one parting kiss. “What about the Bahamas?”

“Well we haven’t plan—oh for shit’s sake, Frederick,” Jimmy shouts, “take a damn photo, nothing else is gonna develop!” Everyone laughs—even Chilton, who tips his head with a flourish; he has an interesting sense of humor—and Brian feels oddly...accepted. “At least he’s leaving Will alone, I guess,” mutters Jimmy, but he’s still smiling. He’s always smiling.

“Graham down in books?”

“Yeah, I think he’d drag him on a retirement trip, too.” Jimmy plants a loud, over-exaggerated kiss on Brian’s temple. “Makes sense. Pretty boy, that one.

Brian can’t help the growl.

“Don’t worry, alpha,” and he sucks the last of his popsicle off of the stick. His lips are cold against Brian’s, and now he's growling for an entirely different reason. Jimmy assures him, mouths still pressed together, “You’re the only cutie for me. Can’t wait to show you off.” He trails a finger down the button lapel of Brian’s shirt; the stitches press into Brian’s chest. “My bare-chested cabana boy.”

“Where are we going?” asks Brian, concentrating very hard on not  _ being _ very hard.

“Wherever you want.”

“When?”

Jimmy pulls back to look at Brian, confused. “Day after I retire good for you?”

Brian blinks, and doesn’t stop.

“Oh my God,” and Jimmy seems genuinely shocked. “Did you think I was leaving you behind? You’ve let me babble about beaches and backpacking for months and never figured out I was dragging you along?”

Brian’s still blinking, even as Jimmy gets up off of his lap, grabbing his hand and pulling him out of their coworker’s yard. “We should say bye,” he says, still dazed, still processing. “Don’t want to get on Lecter’s bad side.”

“Hey, Hannibal!” Jimmy calls out over his shoulder. “Killer party! Thanks for the popsicle; it was a fabulous conversation starter!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[post on tumblr](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/162836018739/summertimeslick-popsicles-omega-jimmyalpha)]
> 
> Meet me over at _[Priority One](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10445265)_ tomorrow for day eleven's prompt, in which I attempt to write Jack Crawford for the very first time!


	8. Day 12—Swimming Pool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie was Abigail’s journalism teacher before she graduated from high school, unaware that they lived in the same apartment complex. She’s been denying her feelings for Abigail for months, but Freddie doesn’t want to resist any longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Abigail/Freddie so, so much. <3
> 
> Warning for voyeurism, never mind the mess that is a pseudo-teacher/student relationship.

Abigail’s barely eighteen, just over the right side of legal. It’s been like watching forbidden fruit blossom from the beginning of January straight through the end of May, from grading her monologues to watching her graduate. She was sweet and sassy and so very, very off-limits.

Freddie isn’t Abigail’s teacher anymore, but that doesn’t make what she wants feel any less wrong.

She found out they lived in the same apartment complex by accident. It was June, but Freddie still had on long-sleeved overshirts, trying to keep her pale skin from burning to a crisp. Freddie would never call herself frumpy— not by any means, not when she took pains to make sure her outfits, though constrained by options, were fashionable. Still, she wasn’t made up, and her hair was pulled back in a haphazard, frizzy bun, and she was wearing her shower shoes.

Because God has never been kind, there stood sun-kissed Abigail next to the mailboxes, low cut shirt and high cut shorts, so shockingly pretty that Freddie had almost turned right back around and gone home to her cat. The breeze stirred Abigail’s long, loose hair, and Freddie smelled her for the first time, no longer covered by the school-mandatory scent blockers. Hibiscus and papaya, like the first bite of a mango and the last of a pink grapefruit, and Freddie has never wanted to taste any omega so badly.

Abigail didn’t acknowledge her until she was walking away, and then she called out, “Hey, Miss Lounds!” She smiled, and Freddie thinks Abigail gave her the once-over, but it could just as easily have been a manipulation of her own hope. There was no explaining away how hard Freddie got watching her leave, though.

Now, Freddie feels like she sees Abigail everywhere, that there’s no place in the complex or the small parts of the city within walking distance that she can escape to. They barely greeted each other at the mailbox, and now the universe thinks they should arrive everywhere at the same time. The library three blocks down; the cafe four blocks up that sells her favorite Cuban sandwich; the goddamn recycling bins in front of the co-op. Abigail; Abigail; Abigail.

The worst had been last weekend, coming back from another failed attempt at speed-dating, running right into Abigail and another girl, walking arm in arm, Abigail with a bottle of rosé and her friend with a six-pack of something.

“You aren’t gonna write me up, are you?” Abigail asked, and Freddie tried not to drown in her sugar-coated voice. “It’s my birthday, you know.”

Freddie had taken a deep breath— _ hormones, slick, ripe, ready— _ and said, “Just this once, young lady. Since it is your birthday.”

Abigail giggled, and winked, and then Freddie watched her walk away again, though she had patted herself on the back for pulling a semi-successful Mrs. Robinson, even if it had subsequently left her feeling more like a Miss Grundy when she jerked off to the encounter that night.

She’s consigned herself to another night of the same, first Bloody Mary down and another waiting on the bedside table, trusty fleshlight clean and lubed and down to knot,  _ The Art of Masturbation _ queued up on her flat screen. Even though she lives on the second floor, even though she’s going to close the blinds, Freddie always looks out the window first, as though someone could X-ray her shame. Not one to give up personal tradition, Freddie glances through the glass, looking down to see if anyone’s preparing to stage a Cliffs of Insanity-style climb up to her apartment.

It’s three hours past closing time for the complex pool, but no one seems to have told Abigail.

Freddie knows she needs to stop peeking around the edge of her vertical blinds, needs to stop playing a one-woman show rendition of  _ Rear Window. _

She doesn’t.

Abigail has her arms stretched out to either side, resting along the edge of the pool, her hair all tossed over one shoulder, ends floating in the water. She’s wearing a bikini, little white bandeau top that might as well be a bandage, matching bottoms slung low beneath her hips. If Freddie didn’t know better, she’d say that Abigail positioned herself at exactly the right angle to display herself to Freddie’s window, found the perfect spot beneath the lamp overhead and the underwater lights of the pool.

Fuck it. Freddie figures she’s going to hell, anyway. Might as well make it the special kind.

Pretending she is pushing into Abigail instead of the fake pussy of her fleshlight is all too easy. Freddie watches Abigail in the pool, lounging there for who knows what reason, and she imagines herself there in front of her, hooking her pointer fingers up, under, and over the waistband of those tiny bottoms, pulling them down Abigail’s thighs.

_ Does she shave? _ Freddie wonders.  _ If she does, how much? Would she be slick for me, or would it only be the water? _

The inside of the fleshlight feels fantastic, ribbed and ridged in a way no omega ever could be. Freddie balances on the edge of her desk chair, fucking into the fake pussy the way she would take Abigail. If she focuses hard enough, Freddie can pretend that Abigail’s legs are around her hips, heels digging into Freddie’s back, urging her on. She refuses to close her eyes to surrender to her fantasies, the way she usually does, afraid that Abigail will disappear from the pool while Freddie chases her knot.

Abigail’s eyes open, too.

She’s looking right at Freddie, smiling, sly.

Freddie can’t breathe, watching Abigail snake one hand off the wall, maintaining her balance with only one arm. Abigail’s fingers circle first one nipple through her thin top, then the other, back and forth, back and forth, and Freddie mirrors her touch, earning the barest of nods. They both catch their bottom lips between their teeth, and Freddie can’t come from the stimulation alone, but it looks like Abigail can; she arches her back slightly, hips squirming in the water, then lets her hand float free.

Soon enough, though, Abigail’s eyes slide back open, and her legs slide further apart, and her hand slides down and into her bottoms. Freddie fumbles as she reaches for more lube, squirting it down over her cock and into the fleshlight. The only movement Freddie can see is the rippling of the water as Abigail rubs her clit. She turns her head onto the shoulder still along the edge of the pool, exposing her throat to the window.

God, but Freddie wants, wants to lick into Abigail’s barely-parted lips as she moans; wants to push her thigh in between the perfect vee of her legs; wants to scent her neck, wants to bite down snarling on her neck as she locks into Abigail’s cunt. She wants, and she can’t have, and it only makes her want it more.

Abigail’s hand moves faster and faster, so Freddie matches her again, fucking into the fleshlight. She’s going to pop her knot too soon, she knows, so Freddie makes herself slow down again. A handful  _ (the swell of her perfect breasts) _ of seconds later  _ (late, like when she carries your child) _ Abigail comes again, teeth around her own fist  _ (your fist, she’d take it, she would). _

Freddie pulls out of the fleshlight at the last moment, because she hates the way knotting it makes her feel, and Freddie’s going to feel bad enough from this already. She still aims for the opening for, still comes into the toy while her knot swells within the circle of her fingers. It’s satisfying, in the way scratching a mosquito bite is satisfying.

Her cell buzzes on the desk beside the lube. Panting, Freddie grabs it and swipes open the text from a number she doesn’t recognize.

**_Enjoy the performance, alpha? ;)_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[post on tumblr](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/163014292074/summertimeslick-swimming-pool-omega)]


	9. Day 13—Vacation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alana's protective instincts are stronger than most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revenge Wives. <3
> 
> Warning for references to breastfeeding, inability to nurse, and late weaning.

Alana never thought she’d be allowed the simple pleasures of motherhood, neither before nor after Hannibal. When she was free, Alana was too focused on her work, too enamored with and concerned about Will, too guarded of her own life. She’d known children were off the menu—and what a funny way to think of it, knowing what she does now—when she was dating Hannibal, when the romance was fantastic, the sex a bit stilted, and the wool still firmly over her eyes.

The moment she met Margot, broken in mind as she was in body, the two of them cracked like thin china—it doesn’t matter what they were, honestly; Alana was in love in a way she’d never thought possible at any point of innocence and subsequent loss thereof. Margot completes her and reflects her and makes her feel powerful again. Invincible. Victorious.

It scares Alana, how much the monster grew within her alongside her child, how much she suddenly understood the way Will and Hannibal loved, the willingness to kill without reservations and how pure that desire felt. She and Margot talk about it sometimes in the night as their son sleeps between them, of the lengths they would go to protect him, of the designs of their brains, planted and nourished by the maddest of men. Normal omegas might not be predisposed for violence, but Alana and Margot are hardly ordinary.

Morgan may be an alpha, but he’s innocent as a lamb. Alana hopes to keep it that way.

She watches her little family from the relatively safety of the umbrella; walking along the shore in search of seashells has destroyed her hip for the day. Morgan comes over every few minutes to check on her, or to nurse; he may be three, but she hasn’t had the heart to wean him because of Margot. If they were home, Alana would be pumping milk for the supplemental nursing system, letting Margot feed Morgan at her own breast. All three of them would prefer it, if she’s being honest, and the only person Alana has ever lied to was Hannibal.

Maybe they can spare a bodyguard for an equipment run. No one’s disturbed their vacation yet.

Yet.

Morgan fills his bucket with too-wet sand, digging haphazardly with a tiny shovel, then hands it off to Margot to upend. They construct towers, he and her, hands working together to raise ruins. He shakes his hands around in the air, little fingers so coated in sand that they’re as big around as Margot’s thumb.

After they’ve built two or three, Morgan jumps up with a huge grin on his face, roaring as he stomps all over the castles. Alana smiles and laughs, and so does Margot, but when their eyes meet across the beach, she knows what they’re both thinking, grins turned dangerous.

 _This is the only beast we will_ _ever allow in our home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[post on tumblr](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/163059066989/summertimeslick-vacation-omega-alanaomega)]


	10. Day 14—Sex on the Beach (1 of 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After over a decade of supporting Lee through treatment for his melanoma, Nigel takes Lee on a spur-of-the-moment trip to celebrate his remission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part one of a Beardogs three-parter! <3

Remission. Nigel isn’t sure which one of them has said the word more often over the past twelve years, though it’s been Lee’s version of “ohm” and he meditates as many times a day as Nigel takes a piss. He accused Lee of timing it that way once. Lee had just laughed and called it “serendipi-pee” and Nigel is never, ever going to forgive him.

Remission, because they’d been dating for maybe a month when Lee got his diagnosis. At first, Nigel only stayed because only an asshole breaks up with a cancer patient. Give it another month, he told himself, maybe two. When they hit the six-month mark, Nigel knew he was in it for the long haul. Another six months, and Nigel loved him more than he thought his heart was capable.

Remission, because in year five, Lee turned to him and said, with more awe than Nigel deserved, “I can’t believe you stayed. No one has ever, ever cared enough to come back when I tried to make them go.”

“Like you’d let me fucking leave in the first place,” said Nigel, smirking.

Lee conceded, and he had worn that little smile of his that made Nigel’s insides melt like toffee. “Even so.”

Remission. It was only a word until this morning, one of those intangible goals that hovers almost close enough to reach but far enough away to blot out the sun. But the doctor told them, “Partial remission,” and Nigel thinks there may have been more words beyond that, but he didn’t fucking hear them.

“Where to, gorgeous?” he asked Lee when they got in the car.

Lee said, “Let’s go to the beach.”

So off they fucking went.

Looking back, the trip was a terrible idea, because even though they’ve rinsed off underneath the outdoor shower, Nigel still has sand in places on his body that God didn’t make. He doesn’t dare complain, though, because Lee is even  _ more _ miserable, and rightly so.

“That song, Nigel,” he begins, “that song  _ lied.” _

Lee hasn’t stopped scratching his crotch since they left the beach, sand caked to his skin with not only sweat, but slick, which his body has suddenly decided to mass produce after a twelve year lull, a side-effect of the cancer treatment. Nigel suspects Lee is about to have his first real heat in just as many years, as the oncologist had warned, but he doesn’t dare bring that up, either. They can work out the implications and expectations later.

Instead, he tests the temperature of the water in the shower of the rented condo and asks, “What song?”

“The Piña Colada Song.” Lee clambers awkwardly over the edge of the tub, dodging around the shower curtain. Nigel thinks about blindly groping him with his hand, still under the spray, and then thinks better. “I have finally made love at midnight in the dunes of the cape and it has left a lot to be desired.”

“Want I should chase down Rupert Holmes?”

“What I  _ want _ is for my thighs to not keep sticking together and trying to make elaborate sand sculptures.” As Nigel climbs in behind him, Lee adds, “And then maybe dessert.”

Nigel chuckles. “Where the fuck am I supposed to find basque cake at one o’clock in the goddamn morning?”

“I don’t  _ know,” _ laments Lee, turning his head, snarling his lip. Nigel feels like he's looking into a mirror, though he could never  _ hope _ to be so adorable. “I’m blaming Rupert for that, too.”

“What about almond ice cream, shortbread cookies, and canned cherries?” Nigel turns him back around, then wraps one arm around Lee’s chest, using a washcloth to gently begin wiping the sand off. “Make you a sundae,” he explains, “and then make  _ you _ into a sundae.”

“That—wow, that sounds really good. Absolutely worth another gross mess.”

He hums and presses his cock into Nigel’s washcloth-covered palm. Nigel drops the washcloth as soon as is practical—the job needs a more hands-on approach, he’s decided. Lee turns his face again to rub the tip of his nose over Nigel’s scent glands that Nigel stupidly had tattooed over after his first break-up. All he wants to wear there now are the marks of Lee’s teeth, though he’d settle for seeing his own on Lee.

“Then I guess Rupert can live, for now,” says Nigel, picking up speed, drowning in the smell of Lee’s preheat, all too noticeable now in the warmth of the bathroom, though Lee still seems blissfully unaware.

“For now?”

“For now.” He twists on the upstroke, listens to Lee’s breath, labored now for all the right reasons. “I have better things to do.”

“And better— _ fuck, Nigel— _ better people, I hope.”

Nigel laughs. “Only you, darling. Only ever you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[post on tumblr](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/163100424749/summertimeslick-sex-on-the-beach-omega)]
> 
> I've had "Escape" stuck in my head for like two weeks now and I blame these ficlets entirely.


	11. Day 15—Surprise Heat(wave) (2 of 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nigel wakes up to the sound of the sea, but there's already a force of nature in his bed.
> 
>  
> 
> (For those of you who get the subscriber email, but don't read a/b/o, bless you for your patience.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's part two of The Piña Colada Bears! :D
> 
> Warning for a fleeting mention of consent issues that accompany heat sex.

They get to bed around one in the morning, or at least, Lee does. Nigel practically carries him to bed, his body still weak from the last round of chemo a few weeks ago, only now beginning the process of rebuilding itself. Weaker still from preheat, Nigel suspects, but Lee practically fell asleep on him mid-handjob in the shower, so they still haven’t talked about it.

He wakes up to the roar of the ocean outside, the waves heavy, thick with salt and brine as low tide turns to high, water lapping up the shore. Nigel takes a deep breath, and he’s suddenly assaulted with the smell of coconut, which, while also reminiscent of the beach, is unexpected.

Turning his head, Nigel’s eyes meet Lee’s, a frantic blue-green in the early dawn. His mouth hangs open, lips chapped, but Lee isn’t making a sound. He’s thrown off the covers in the night, his nude body sticking to the sheet. One hand is thrust between his legs, pumping fingers in and out of his cunt.

“Fuck, baby,” Nigel says, already hoarse as he feels his own body responding. “Fuck, you look so good.”

“I didn’t know,” whispers Lee. “How did I not know?”

Nigel caresses the side of Lee’s face; he grabs Nigel’s wrist with his free hand to hold it there, forearm nearly blocking his face from view. “Because you’re always tired and sweaty and horny?”

“Well you’ve got me there.” Lee rolls onto his back as Nigel settles in above him, still reluctant to give Nigel his hand back, giving a soft whine as Nigel pulls free. Nigel plants his palms next to Lee’s shoulders, then lowers his face to Lee’s neck. “Are you scenting me?”

“Of course I’m fucking scenting you.”

“Does it—” Nigel shifts to let Lee’s hand snake between them. He’s baring his neck, and Nigel’s never seen Lee do so, neither before he found out he was sick, nor during his treatment, when all of his instincts were suppressed. Lee groans as his fingers find his own nipples, and his scent grows stronger. “What do I smell like?” he asks breathlessly.

“Coconut,” says Nigel, and he can’t keep his mouth off of Lee’s neck, kissing, licking, nibbling. “Rich and sweet. Something else good—hristos, wish I hadn’t stuffed so much fucking snow up my nose, but I can still smell enough to know you’re—”

“I’m what?”

He shudders as he says, “Fertile. Ready. Fuck, Lee,” and Nigel pulls Lee’s fingers out of his cunt, feels Lee chase their hands with his hips, little whimpering cries driving them both mindless. “I feel like I’m drowning in it. Want to fuck you and knot you and claim you and  _ mate you.” _

Lee has both of his hands on his chest now, fondling himself like he’s never felt the meager handfuls of his breasts before. “Want it,” he murmurs. “All of it. Want it, want you.”

“You can’t consent—”

“Neither can you,” hisses Lee, “we’re both too high on hormones to know any better so let’s just promise not to tell on each other.”

“Lee—”

“Goddammit, Nigel, will you fucking  _ bite me already?” _

So Nigel does, sinks his teeth in deeper than necessary, pulls and gnaws, as feral as he’d promised himself he wouldn’t be. It’s not in the spot Nigel had always imagined it being, isn’t neat or pretty, nothing but primal and vicious. Lee’s blood is bright in his mouth, and Nigel breaks out of his reverie long enough to make sure he isn’t eating him, but Lee pushes Nigel’s face back into his neck and snarls, so Nigel keeps going.

_ Fuck _ but Nigel’s missed his firebrand of an omega.

Lee grabs Nigel's cock and lines him up—which is good, because Nigel feels drunk, fastened to Lee’s neck like this. He shivers as Lee pulls them together, guiding Nigel’s hips, using Nigel like he’d thrust a toy. Whatever still-operating part of Nigel’s brain remains tells him to get his arm beneath Lee and his hand to the back of Lee’s neck.

“Waited so long,” says Lee, and he sounds equally as wrecked. “Knew that first night, knew I needed, knew—oh fuck, Alpha, please, I  _ need.” _

Nigel’s never experienced it for himself before, the special brand of gut-wrenching ache when an omega begs for their alpha’s knot. He snaps to attention, pressing little blood-laden kisses to Lee’s open mouth, soothing him with his hands, rolling them onto their sides, a tangle of arms and legs. Nigel rocks onto his own back and clutches Lee’s body to his own as Nigel thrusts up into him. They’ve never been this rough before; Nigel’s never let himself go with Lee.

“Tell me who you belong to, Lee,” and Nigel doesn’t know if the roar in his ears is the sound of the sea or that of his own rushing blood. The bed pounds against the wall, their own little storm-tossed boat. “Tell me who this pretty little omega in my arms belongs to.”

“Oh my  _ God, _ Nigel.”

He slaps Lee’s flank, slowing down to a grind as Nigel feels his knot begin to swell. “Like that, yeah?”

Lee answers by snapping his teeth into Nigel’s scent glands, mangling the tattoo beyond recognition. The smell of his own blood is unmistakable—he's smelled it too often over the years to need a fully-functional nose to recognize it.

“Gonna fuck you nice and full,” Nigel promises, and he smacks at Lee’s ass again as Lee tries to reach between them for his cock. “No, you gorgeous thing. You can come on your alpha’s knot. That’s all you need to feel good.”

“More, Alpha. Fuck, please,  _ more.” _

So Nigel keeps talking, starts fucking him fast again as Lee moans around Nigel’s flesh in his mouth. “You gonna catch for me, baby?” he asks. “We’ve got nowhere to be. Maybe I’ll just keep you in bed until I knock you up. You want that, Lee? You want me to breed you up like a good little omega? Want me to hold you down and fuck you until all you can say is alpha?  Want me to own you?”

Lee comes, hips stuttering, but his cock is still hard between them. Nigel’s knot finally pops all the way in as Lee relaxes, and Nigel comes, too, Lee still rubbing himself shamelessly again Nigel’s body, chasing his heat.

The tide keeps rolling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[post on tumblr](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/163136874104/summertimeslick-surprise-heatwave-omega)]
> 
> I keep meaning to mention this, but [I'm holding a giveaway over on tumblr](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/162404156649/its-ships-1551-follower-giveawaypalooza-you-all)! Go check it out, if you like winning things.


	12. Day 16—Summer Storm (3 of 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nigel and Lee spend their last day of vacation as proper tourists. When they end up at a crab shack down the beach, a suspicious couple takes an interest in their new bond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, the absurdly fluffy conclusion of The Piña Colada Bears. <3

They know that the chance of Lee getting pregnant is astronomical, even after a three-day heat where they barely stopped fucking long enough to sleep. That doesn’t mean Nigel wants to treat Lee like an expecting mate, though; if anything, it makes Nigel more determined to ensure that the rest of their vacation is as close to a perfect matemoon as possible.

Lee grins at Nigel’s over-protectiveness in public; he practically glows at all the intention, and that makes their shared fantasy all the sweeter. The cooing old ladies up and down the beach, the fishermen off the pier who congratulate them—the freshness of their bites is obvious, just as telling as the way Nigel nips at Lee’s neck once in awhile as they walk along the shore, or the way his hands instinctively find Lee’s stomach. Even if the only person Nigel’s protecting is Lee, it settles them both.

Nigel doesn’t remember ever smiling this much in his life. He probably hasn’t.

On their last day in the condo, Lee feels well enough to stay out for more than a few hours at a time. They do all the stupid touristy shit Nigel’s resisted since they got here: going to the weird souvenir shop to buy a set of tacky owls made out of seashells; playing putt-putt, which Nigel sort of enjoys; letting Lee cover him up with sand while Nigel grumbles about hermit crabs and seagulls. Lee actually finds a store that sells disposable cameras; they buy one apiece, and spend the rest of the afternoon wasting their film.

They find an actual, honest-to-God crab shack out past the lighthouse, some local watering hole full of picnic bench seating and regulars who are automatically suspicious of Nigel and his shirt. Lee is disarming enough for both of them, though, and when he orders a virgin piña colada—

“Really?”

“Seemed appropriate.”

—there's more than one nod of understanding. Nigel always wondered if the universal rule of tourism actually was universal; nice to know these folks are loathe to fuck with newlymates, visiting or staying.

A gentleman in a wide-brimmed Panama hat sends over two plates of oysters, and then another two after that. The other patrons chuckle good-naturedly, but not Panama, only half-smiles. He’s overdressed for the dive, but his companion looks local enough, all scars and scraggly hair. Complete fucking opposites. Nigel decides they’re bad news, but the oysters are good, and it would be fucking rude to complain about hospitality.

It quickly becomes apparent that they aren’t going to need to pay for any of their meal, at all. There’s a woman with half a mustache—Nigel thinks she might be the owner—who keeps sending over tiny plates of dessert. A couple of old men playing checkers at the ramshackle bar prod the one server several times, and then Lee suddenly has more crab cakes on his plate.

“You’re all wonderful,” Lee says, addressing the ceiling loudly, “but I’m going to lose my girlish figure at this rate.”

“Gotta get some meat on you for the pup,” someone calls back. Nigel doesn’t see who; he’s too busy watching Lee’s face, charting the way his expression keeps shifting from stunned to heartbroken to touched. He reaches across the table for Lee’s hand. It’s trembling.

“We can go.”

But Lee shakes his head. “Let’s enjoy it a little while longer,” and he smiles.

Panama and Scars stop them on their way out when they leave almost an hour later. Actually, it’s more of a Scars grabs Lee’s arm and Panama looks beleaguered situation. Either way, it sets Nigel’s teeth on edge, and he barely suppresses a growl.

“He won’t tell you,” says Scars quietly, never taking his eyes off of Panama, “but you still could have one.”

“Could have what?” asks Lee.

“Not the cancer.” Scars lets go of Lee’s long sleeve. “A baby, I mean. He’s got a good nose. I’d trust it.”

They’re both rattled and silent as they leave the ghostly pair and the crab shack behind. Nigel thinks the meeting’s going to stick with him for a while; Lee, on the other hand, never stays anything but cheerful for long. Clouds begin to roll in overhead, but he’s still content to pick along the shore for interesting bits of sea glass and pieces of driftwood to turn over. Even after so many years, Nigel doesn’t fully understand how Lee manages to constantly live in the moment, but he’s content to tag along.

Unbidden, he thinks of Lee holding a little hand and walking down the beach. Nigel sighs. They’re too old for this shit.

Sprinkles turn to big fat drops by the time they make it back to the condo. The clouds are a dark bruise on the sky, navy blues and blacks that fade to purple as the sun starts to set. Lee grabs Nigel’s hand, giggling as they run around the single building for the front door, Nigel’s hair beginning to stick to his scalp. He digs into his pocket for his keys.

He digs into his other pocket for his keys.

“Oh you’ve got to be shitting me.”

“What?”

Nigel rests his forehead against the door, letting the rain drip under the collar of his shirt. “I don’t have the fucking keys.”

Lee tugs on his hand. “Maybe I left the patio door unlocked,” he says, dragging Nigel back around onto the beach. There’s an awning over the patio, but that’s little comfort, considering that the sliding glass is also locked tight. Lee begins to laugh, pulling Nigel against him so that the can both stand under their tiny bit of cover.

“Care to share?” asks Nigel.

“You don’t seem to like getting caught in rain, that’s all.”

Nigel winds his arms around Lee’s waist, crowding him up against the glass. “I think I missed the joke.”

“We’ve just been checking off Rupert’s Law this entire trip, one insipid lyric at a time.” He tilts his head to kiss Nigel, and he still tastes like sweet crab. Nigel can feel his back getting soaked, and the rain is pounding heavy on the awning overhead, but Lee is delicious—his mouth, his hands, his scent, growing steady with the storm. His fingers are in Nigel’s hair, tugging gently enough to make Nigel growl and nip at his bottom lip. Nigel slides a palm up to the back of Lee’s neck, because he can do that now, because Lee finally feels it and Nigel’s allowed, and Lee purrs, melting in Nigel’s arms.

“The man back there—” Nigel stops, preoccupied with pinning Lee’s hip to the door with his free hand. He puts a leg on either side of Lee’s, pressing their cocks together, both of them hard. The scent of coconut is somehow stronger than the ocean air. “What he said—”

Lee bares his neck, and Nigel accepts the invitation. “We don’t have to,” says Lee, sighing at the press of Nigel’s lips against his skin. “We’ve never talked about—If you don’t want—”

“Oh,” Nigel begins, chuckling lowly, “oh, I want.” He bites and pulls at the lobe of Lee’s ear, pushing all the harder against Lee’s hip, holding him in place as he grinds against him, relishing all the helpless little sounds it pulls from his omega. His. _“Mine.”_

“Yours, yours, _yes.”_

“We can ask the doctor when we get home,” says Nigel, “ask if it’s safe.” Lee tries to wiggle beneath him, and Nigel holds their hips apart. “You take what Alpha gives you, remember?”

“God, fuck.” Lee’s panting into his ear as Nigel teases a nipple through his thin shirt with the tip of a finger. “Please, Alpha, please, I need you.”

Nigel straightens, realizing how rapidly warm Lee’s skin is growing. He pulls back, and Lee’s face is flushed. “Fuck, gorgeous. I think your body’s making up for lost time.”

“Pockets!” Lee gasps. “My _pockets,_ my _keys.”_

“You’ve had your keys this entire fucking time?” But Lee starts to whine, and Nigel doesn’t care about the subterfuge. All he can think about is knotting Lee, and how fertile he must really fucking be, and how they should probably call the doctor back home after the first round and tell him there’s going to be a baby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[post on tumblr](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/163292092369/summertimeslick-summer-storm-omega-leealpha)]
> 
> You might have already noticed, but I don't tag/warn for "mpreg". Men can be pregnant in the real world; giving it a separate label is not only unnecessary, but transphobic. Pregnancy is pregnancy, no matter the gender. <3
> 
> The next two ficlets will be posted over at _[Priority One](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10445265)._ I'm also going to start skipping around the prompt list a bit; there are two more ficlet series coming up, and I'd like to keep the pieces of said series in order. :)


	13. Day 18—Trope Tuesday II (True Mates/Psychic Bond)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finding a true mate is nigh impossible, since the psychic bond required to discover one can only be established the closer in distance one mate becomes to the other. Hannibal has hoped to never find his due to his homicidal tendencies. When his moves into the psychic radius, however, Hannibal may have to reconsider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Gee, Ship, you sure do write a lot of omega Hannibal."
> 
> "Yup."
> 
> "Why is that?"
> 
> "I go where the knots take me."

It started as a vague hum. Hannibal visited an auditory specialist, but she determined it wasn’t tinnitus. There was nothing wrong with his hearing whatsoever. After a while, Hannibal became accustomed to the sound. He even found it comforting, at times.

A few years later, Hannibal woke up to the sound of barking dogs. He searched his property, his neighborhood, the surrounding area. No dogs. Hannibal knew he wasn’t losing his faculties, which left only one possibility.

After decades of dreading such an event, Hannibal's true mate had moved into the area.

Given the slow acquisition of his true mate’s ambient noise, Hannibal was certain that the alpha remained miles away, perhaps an hour or more in any given direction. Given his illicit activities, Hannibal had hoped to go his entire life unbonded. Being found by his true mate was inconvenient at best; Hannibal knew that killing his alpha, whether his death was desired or not, would tear a deep hole within his psyche. He would never be the same person.

Nevertheless, if his mate sought him out, Hannibal had no other choice if he wished to remain unfettered.

It soon became apparent, however, that Hannibal’s alpha had no interest in finding him, either. Hannibal could feel the bond slowly growing, a low murmur, and then a delicate growl, and then a stream of pleasant-sounding grumpiness. He shut his mate out as often as possible, but there was a bite to his words, a harsh poetry that Hannibal found himself loathe to erase. It made Hannibal want to meet him just long enough to satisfy his own curiosity, to hear whatever obscene litany the man might drawl into his ear as they made love for their first and last time.

At first, Hannibal kept his hunting quiet and dull because he had no interest in being found out or stopped. He was an artist, and refused to have his creative spirit quelled. When he attended the opera, Hannibal spent his time concentrating on whatever odd sound occupied his hindmind, wondering if it would be enough to throw off the alpha and keep him from wondering why he was continually shut out of Hannibal’s auditory life. It dawned on him nearly a year into his scheme that his mate didn’t care.

The rejection stung, whether he had sought it originally or not.

Hannibal did his best to continue shutting the man out, and he continued to conceal his hunts. The more Hannibal edited the sounds of his own life, though, the more addicted he became to his alpha’s. The babbling water of a stream on the weekends; the scratching of a pen over paper; the happy, multiple repetitions of “good boy” every day that was given to lowly beasts, but never to Hannibal.

When he was home alone, his would-be mate consumed his thoughts. Hannibal hated his weakness, hated how quickly this alpha had reduced him to his basest elements. It sickened him, but Hannibal vowed: if ever they should meet, the man would die.

 

* * *

 

Hannibal only accepted Jack’s request out of utter boredom and a desperate need to erase his absent alpha from his brain. The proposal was enticing enough—psychoanalyze the FBI’s best profiler, a misanthropic genius who had resisted analysis at every turn. But Jack had lured him in, just as he had Hannibal, though Jack assumed Hannibal was interested in saving innocent lives, as well. If nothing else, this might give Hannibal a new plaything.

_ You’re here, aren’t you? _ asks his mate, and Hannibal nearly shatters mid conversation.

Jack narrows his eyes and leans forward in concern. “Dr. Lecter? Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Hannibal says, though he very much isn’t. “A sudden headache, I’m afraid.”

His mate snorts.  _ You’re a constant migraine for me, too. _

“It’s a sick case,” Jack says, nodding. “I think Will’s the only one of us who can stomach any of it.”

“Will?”

“Right, I hadn’t told you his name.” Jack hands a personnel file across the desk to Hannibal. “Will Graham, ex-cop, current professor, and the best tool the BAU will likely ever have.”

Hannibal bristles. While he frequently considers his fellow humans as nothing more than people, hearing Will Graham referred to as a mere instrument angers him. “I only perform psychotherapy for individuals passing the Turing test, Agent Crawford.”

“Fair enough,” replies Jack, chuckling. “He’s human, I promise, though he might as well be a beta for all the instinct he doesn’t have.”

“An empathic alpha?”

“It’s a strange concept, isn’t it?”

Hannibal opens the file and pretends to study the contents.  _ Are you near? _

_ Do you care? _ Hannibal’s true mate sounds surprised.  _ You’ve never come looking before. _

_ I had expected you to do the seeking, _ explains Hannibal as Jack pushes himself away from the desk and excuses himself from the office.

_ After all you’ve done is push me away and subject me to opera? _ The voice scoffs; Hannibal hears footsteps that aren’t his alpha’s.  _ Not that you’ve done a very good job of blocking me out. You’re more transparent than you think. _

Hannibal’s hand shakes, once, and he closes the file.  _ What do you know? _

_ You mean beyond that you kill and eat people? _ When Hannibal says nothing, his mate continues.  _ Well. You have the most boring job in the entire world and apparently keep a damn orchestra inside your house. _

_ And this is what bothers you?  _ The corner of Hannibal’s mouth twitches up.  _ Can you not simply tune the instruments out? _

The alpha groans.  _ Never mind the puns. _

_ But my proclivities? _

_ I mean, it could be worse. You could be a Republican. _

Hannibal hears running water—it sounds like a drinking fountain.  _ If I do not disgust you, why haven’t you sought me out? _

_ I’m not exactly pleasant company. My thoughts aren’t very...tasty, I suppose, so I thought it was a good thing that you blocked me more often than not. _

_ I must confess,  _ begins Hannibal, _ I have listened to you at every opportunity. In spite of my efforts, I hunger for you. Ache for you. _

_ Apparently, I’m an even worse alpha than they tell me I am, not even realizing I’ve let you languish.  _ His alpha sounds pained, but there’s also an overwhelming feeling of longing that pushes through the bond. He must be close.

_ Perhaps you would allow me to be the judge of that? _

_ Are you still intending to kill me, spider mine? _

He can’t stop the shudder that runs down his spine, and the tiny moan that catches behind his teeth. Hannibal’s eyelids are heavy; his pulse, elevated; the room, too warm for his jacket.  _ Alpha… _

The door swings open, and Hannibal tries to compose himself, only to feel the tentative caress of fingertips on the back of his neck. His head drops, and Hannibal pushes himself back into the touch, frantic, on fire. Part of him cringes at his behavior; the rest of him rejoices at no longer being deprived of what he’s wanted most. The fingers become a hand, a light pressure that Hannibal has never allowed before. Hannibal whimpers, and immediately hates himself.

“It’s alright,” his alpha says. “I don’t think you’re weak. Instincts are inconvenient sometimes.”

Another swing of the door. “Will! What do you think you’re—”

“We’re going to need the room for a few minutes, Jack.” Will doesn’t remove his hand, simply trails it where he can reach as he moves to crouch in front of Hannibal. He watches Will take off his glasses; they clatter on the desk as he tosses them aside. His eyes are as tender as his touch, and Hannibal can’t keep his trembling fingers to himself any longer, sinking them into Will’s mess of curls, shivering all over with desperate want.

The door creaks. “Hannibal?” A short pause before Jack asks, “What’s happening here?”

Will’s eyes grow cool and steely, the shift likely imperceptible to anyone but Hannibal. If there had been any doubt before, Hannibal has none now. This  _ is _ his true mate, another quiet Death that moves among the living.

“If you want me to work with you,” begins Will, glaring at Jack, “then you will leave your office now.” He glances back at Hannibal and grins. “I think my omega and I need to get to know each other.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[post on tumblr](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/163409555429/summertimeslick-trope-tuesday-ii-alpha)]
> 
> Tomorrow begins the hopping around the prompt list part. See you back here for un/requited love! :D


	14. Day 21—Unrequited/Requited Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not even Hannibal's rescue of Will from Muskrat Farm is enough to forgive him from sawing into Will's head. Will spurns Hannibal's strange love and turns him away; in the process of destroying his relationship with Hannibal, however, Will begins to destroy himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Do we talk about teacups and time and the rules of disorder?"
> 
> Trigger warning for self harm via starvation and some serious mindfuckery.

He doesn’t remember the last time he ate, to be honest. The kitchen is haunted by a man he never saw standing there, by dogs that have new families, by a daughter who was never really his to parent.

It’s cold, but he hasn’t used the fireplace since the last fire built there burnt out. There’s nothing here but the bed he couldn’t sell, and the chair that likewise refused to leave, and a few other odds and ends that used to serve a purpose, just as he did.

He’s certain that he wasn’t the one to put the chamber pot under the bed, wasn’t the person who moved it out from under the bathroom sink, a remnant left by the previous tenant, the man they found dead in the bedroom upstairs, though no one knows exactly when he died. After all, he was alone.

Will feels dead. But he isn’t.

Starvation is the worst way to go—someone told him that, at some point, back when he was more alive. Will knows better. It’s  _ loneliness _ that kills the hardest, and  _ regret _ that atrophies the muscles and rots the bones, that makes the meat too gamey and tough to even stew.

He looks out the window onto the porch once in awhile, when he isn’t asleep or freezing or both. If he squints, Will can still see him looking back. A face streaked with tears, painted with the sting of rejection, a little boy lost out in the snow who doesn’t truly understand what he did wrong, who’s too smart to draw the right conclusion until it’s too, too late. Red-rimmed eyes and slightly parted lips and words lost to the wind and the wood of the porch.

Jack followed his footsteps. There weren’t many to follow. Hannibal had simply disappeared.

And so had Will.

Chiyoh came in, once, because that was her way. She stood there, just there, at the foot of the bed, staring at him as he reclined against the window behind his back, as still and cold as he had been when Hannibal left.

“You expected a fight,” she said.

Will shook his head and said, “I expected to die.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Yes,” said Will, “I did.”

“No,” Chiyoh replied. “Not yet.”

She left while he was sleeping, like everyone else had. It was as though Jack and Alana had simply evaporated, likely because they didn’t understand why he barely ate  _ (the stale saltines in the cabinet, from the days when Hannibal fed him Abigail’s ear while roasting Will’s brain, so tender, so sweet) _ or rarely drank  _ (hand cupped beneath the bathroom faucet after he empties the pot, water trickling through his fingers like so much sand). _ There was no way to explain why he constantly studied Hannibal’s inane scribblings, the only part of Hannibal’s own brain to be served, written in a futile attempt to make it all right and perfect, as if the snow he carried Will through like a bride over an endless threshold was pure enough to wash away the sins of the lamb.

Now, Will only holds the notebook to his chest and sobs. It’s the only calendar he uses anymore—Will can barely stumble to the bathroom, let alone to the lone  _ Farmer’s Almanac _ inexplicably placed on top of the fridge. He knows his heat will come, sooner rather than later. If Will's lucky, the sickness will take him instead of the gnawing of his belly.

_ Perhaps tomorrow, _ Will thought.  _ Or maybe Thursday, whenever that is. _

 

* * *

 

He’s sweated through the sheets, delirious, thirsty, boiling in his own skin. A nerve fires in Will’s brain, reminds him that this has happened before, a lifetime ago, back when Will knew no better, back when his mind was full of killers and he denied how beautiful he found the art.

His cunt is empty, and Will supposes that it shouldn’t be, but there’s no option beyond his own fingers. Will knows that won’t be enough, that it won’t satisfy the ache. He leaves it alone.

Will has never had a heat without an erection before, but there his cock lies, flaccid against his belly. There’s no compunction to touch that, either. It’s as though his heat is disembodied, that Will isn’t here, just as he hasn’t been here since the moment Hannibal left him.

Hannibal.

_ Alpha. _

He throws off the blankets and pulls at the corners of the fitted sheet (where had they come from in the first place). Will wiggles it out from beneath him; the sheet sticks to the insides of his thighs and calves where the slick has run down like the stream from the source. He thrashes and screams and cries, wrapping himself in his own funeral shroud—at least, there’s a Will  _ somewhere _ that is, that only needs his alpha, alpha,  _ Alpha— _

“What have I done?” A cool cloth on his face, but Will tries to shake it away. “Too far,” the voice says, “too far away, sweet pet, I went too far,” and the frantic, fearful mumbles sound familiar.

The dogs are whining—Will can hear them outside over the blasting fans. He thinks that they shouldn’t be there, that they  _ haven’t _ been there, that he shouldn’t be able to hear them over his own shrieking.

“I know it hurts,  širdie—God forgive me, I only wanted to make it right.”

Will lets himself be rolled over, feels his knees pushed up beneath him, and presenting seems like the right course of action. His hair is stuck to his face, and he can smell the filth of himself now, disgusting, wrong,  _ bad. _

A cock slides into him  _ (a tube, an ear, beware the Ripper) _ and bare skin lies across his own, against the skeletal mass of him, covering, protecting. “So good,” says the voice, “you aren’t bad, Will, you’re perfect, and I’ve nearly ruined you, every  _ time _ have I ruined you, oh  _ God.” _ There’s a new dampness against Will’s back  _ (trickle down the knobby bones of the spine, like so much water that flows around the rocks of the wading stream) _ and he begins to remember Now and forget the fever dream he’s apparently awoken from.

“Hannibal,” Will whispers, and he doesn’t know when he last heard words formed by his voice. “Hannibal,” he repeats, again and again, and then, “Alpha,” because that quells the cramping in his muscles.

“Yes, little one.” Hannibal chokes on the same sob as Will, but he likes that, being small and loved and he’s waited for his alpha for so long, for endless forevers. “I’m here now,” says Hannibal, his voice a balm on Will’s bed sores, even as he begins to move within him.

“Stay.”

“I'll never leave.”

Hannibal’s teeth find the glands on Will’s neck, and does he even have a scent beneath the dried grime and sweat anymore? It doesn’t matter to his alpha, who truly is  _ Will’s _ alpha now, and Will belongs somewhere, at last.

He feels the knot grow and push and rub, but there’s only comfort to be found; Will’s too weak to come, to gain any pleasure beyond relief. There was a dream, Will thinks  _ (a blade in his guts, a saw in his head), _ but it dissipates like so much smoke, murdering the monster stuck in the chimney. Hannibal rolls them to their sides, and holds him, and holds him, and doesn’t walk away, and it hardly matters what terrors lie beyond Will’s porch, for there's a beast far darker than the darkness who owns him now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[post on tumblr](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/163448965114/summertimeslick-unrequited-or-requited-love)]
> 
> Tune in tomorrow for an unexpected trip through Middle Earth!


	15. Day 22—(Middle Earth) Historical AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charmont might be too outspoken and curious about the outside world to belong in the Shire, but he’s not sure he’s prepared for whatever adventure his one-eyed human visitor promises to bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This happens in some hand-wavy time post SR 1421, and therefore totally counts as history, okay? Pretend Elrond's reading it. That should help.

Living near Bree as he does, this certainly isn’t the first time Charmont has come across a human in the woods. He never makes contact, and neither do they, though Charmont would certainly offer them shelter or a meal if they asked. Still, Charmont prefers the quiet and the solitude after the chaos of his exit from the Shire.

Perhaps he is too much like his second cousin Frodo, as his uncle accused. Whatever the reason, Charmont was glad to have his old life behind him, and his old love, and the insular community that became suffocating at a young age. It’s why he’s never actually ventured into Bree; Charmont can’t stand the idea of stepping foot in another village or city again.

And so, here he is, making do in the forest like the Elves, though they too have exiled themselves elsewhere.

And there  _ he _ is, a truly imposing human, tattoos stark against his skin, staggering his way toward the stream where Charmont is fishing. Charmont might be an alpha, but he is still very much a Hobbit; he might have a small sense of adventure, but that doesn’t mean he’s looking for it right now. It would be safest to turn for his hill in the meadow, to pick his way up the stream to throw off his scent.

Instead, Charmont is frozen to his rock, watching the man and his axe come closer and closer. He’s not too terrified to pull his farsight spectacles from his sack, though, to take a better look at his visitor. The man is covered in terrible scars--a fighter, then, Charmont decides, or perhaps a poorly-trained scout. He has a single eye, the other only a gnarled, frightening knot. His clothes are tattered, and he has no shoes, and he seems to be injured, and Charmont doesn’t even realize he’s moving until he’s catching the man as he tips forward toward the forest floor.

His nostrils fill with the floral scent of Westman’s-weed. Charmont hasn’t smelled it since he was a child, not since Frodo left the Shire for the final time. Maneuvering the man in his arms is difficult, but Charmont finally gets him upright, reclining, his axe discarded in favor of clinging to Charmont’s shirt.

“You’re an omega,” Charmont says quietly. He can’t help but lift the man’s face and press it into his own neck--Charmont has to calm him somehow, and the back of his neck is hidden behind a thick collar. “Come on, then. Let’s get you home. No, no, no,” he continues, soothing a suddenly panicked omega, “not back to wherever you came. Back to  _ my _ home. It’s downstream a ways.”

Charmont takes a moment to toss his fishing pole into the water ahead of them, hoping it will wash up near his hill, and then they start off after it.

 

* * *

 

The stream washed off most of the omega’s dirt and grime thanks to a few missteps along the way, so all that’s left for Charmont is to bandage whatever wounds he can find. There aren’t any clothes that will fit him properly, except for Charmont’s night shift. His guest is so grateful that it almost embarrasses Charmont, but it’s difficult to be embarrassed when the only other person in the room is asleep. Charmont has nothing proper to serve for supper, so all there is to do is read, write, and stare at his bed in confusion.

Or else, stare at the collar lying on the table, cut off of the omega’s neck, skin white as simbelmynë beneath. He might as well  _ still _ be collared, given how stark the strip of skin is against his tanned body. Charmont suspects he was a pit fighter, as some of the wilder humans seem to favor such terrible events. If Charmont can house him long enough, perhaps his handler will simply move on.

Then again, the child his guest carries might  _ be _ his handler’s for all Charmont knows. How could he not take in a runaway who so obviously escaped for the welfare of his growing pup? Charmont already feels a sense of responsibility, and that’s certainly dangerous, and maybe even an adventure best avoided.

But the man jerks awake, chest heaving, his hand flying to his belly, his one eye turning to Charmont, pleading for him. Charmont goes, as if he actually  _ is _ his alpha, climbing into bed beside him. He shushes his new housemate, for all intents and purposes, letting him nuzzle into Charmont’s scent glands again. The angles should feel odd, the omega being close to twice Charmont’s height, his feet squished against the end of the bed and his legs bent even more severely as he fits his head beneath Charmont’s chin. Regardless, they seem to fit.

“Can you speak?” he asks. The omega shakes his head, breath warm against Charmont’s neck. “That’s alright. We seem to understand each other well enough without.” Charmont hesitates. “Do you know how many astar you’ve carried?” But the omega shakes his head again, and that makes sense; many fighters and physical laborers skip heats. Charmont decides to leave the topic tabled for the moment. “What can I call you?”

He pulls away from Charmont long enough to shrug. Charmont is struck by how enchanting his one eye is, close up like this, a lovely red-amber, like special occasion mead or a late-setting sun or--

“So that’s why,” says Charmont. He cards his fingers through the omega’s long hair, loose and soft from where Charmont insisted on combing it. “A single red and gold eye. A reminder of Sauron.”

The man closes said eye and nods.

“I’m sorry people are superstitious and generally dreadful. The number of awful names you’ve probably been given.” Charmont tightens his hold, but there’s no relaxing the omega now; his scent grows bitter and sad. “Let’s--let’s give you a better one, then,” decides Charmont, because he can’t stand the smell of grief, especially from the man in his arms. “Oh! I know! What do you think of Red Arrow?”

His head snaps up. He must recognize the meaning. Perhaps he is originally from Gondor. It would explain the absurd fear about his eye.

“I think it makes sense,” Charmont continues. “You managed to summon me, by some chance of fate, after all. This is truly a time of need. I’m not of the Rohirrim, but I am certainly your ally.”

Red Arrow settles again; Charmont feels the brush of lips against his neck, barely there, gentle and timid. It’s strange, how quickly attached Charmont has grown to him. He’d heard of such matches before, but they were children’s tales. There is a child involved here, though. Maybe that’s enough to satisfy the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[post on tumblr](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/163489970004/summertimeslick-historical-middle-earth-au)]
> 
> Is my nerd showing? I think my nerd might be showing.
> 
> Also, I've been getting a lot of comments along the lines of, "Please continue this!" While these are all intended as one-shots, this is me we're talking about, and there's always a chance of my coming back to one. A _chance;_ no promises. I'm ecstatic that you all are enjoying these so much!  <3


	16. Day 23—Slave Auction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s only one reason Nigel would ever attend an Auction. After months apart, he’s finally found, bought, and saved the man who matters most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omega Nigel! Because why the fuck not.
> 
> [throws a bucket of feelings at you]

The sniffling and quiet crying from the backseat are breaking Nigel’s heart, but he has to keep driving if they have any chance of sneaking across the border and back to the refugee camp. Nigel can’t lose him now, not after months spent tracking down the black market slave ring while dodging recapture himself. He’s grateful to his dead owner for having enough credits to make it back across the Atlantic Passage to Brest, though Nigel is _more_ grateful that Verger died quickly and quietly.

Nigel still has his mask and cloak on from the Auction in case they are stopped at the border. It will be easier to pay off the guards that way; who would want to turn down the favor of a rich alpha? Never mind that it covers the brand on his neck. Hopefully, his scent blockers won’t run out before they escape to Outer Geneva and the safety of the omega caravan.

He reeks of alpha, but it was the only way to truly conceal himself at the Auction, beyond the traditional outfit. Nigel can’t wait for the smell to dissipate, to scent his lost love again and take the bag from off of his head and remove his chains. They can both be free now, as long as they stay careful.

Another shallow breath, because the stench reminds him of the auction house tonight which, in turn, brings back the bone-deep chill of the resigned terror in his omega’s eyes. Nigel had last saw it on the day the slavers dragged him off to his own Auction, their fingers slipping apart, his would-be mate screaming and Nigel losing focus as he lost himself to his heat. Tonight, the auctioneer declared him, “Good enough for a red room,” and Nigel wanted to rush the stage in his panic.

But he had enough to cover the cost. It hadn’t been much—“He’s sick,” the auctioneer said, “and doesn’t have heats, but he’ll make pleasant entertainment for your more dangerous desires.”

And that’s what Lee thinks he’s being whisked off to, Nigel supposes. He barely keeps himself from pressing down on the pedal, from shifting up to a faster gear. They can’t be caught. He won’t lose Lee again.

 

* * *

 

Nigel gets them over the border without incident, and to the outskirts of the refugee camp safely. Lee’s managed to fall asleep; Nigel can only imagine how exhausted he is. He the speeder in to hitch to his trailer in the morning. As soon as it’s parked, Nigel practically kicks open his door. He pulls Lee out of the speeder as gently as possible, keys open the shutter for his trailer, and hopes there’s enough time to comfort him before the caravan leaves at sunrise.

Fuck it. He’ll _make_ time.

“You found him!” Figures the crew would be waiting for Nigel to make it back. It’s a testament to Lee’s tiredness that Charlie’s grating voice doesn’t wake him up.

Nigel nods, and fuck but he’s tired, too. “Introductions later, yeah?” His voice is unrecognizable with the vocal tuner box—Charlie switches it off and unbuckles it from his neck, probably to make sure it actually _is_ Nigel. “It’s fucking me, Charlie. For shit’s sake.”

Gabi smiles at him in her perpetually sad way. “Of course. We need to go tell Darko you made it back, anyway.”

They kiss each other’s cheeks; besides Lee, Gabi’s the most important person in his life. She had led him to the omega camp, after all. If not for her vouching, Darko might never have agreed to let him join his refugee caravan. He certainly wouldn’t have approved his little rescue mission tonight, no matter how close he and Nigel have become.

Charlie claps him on the shoulder as they leave, and Nigel thinks they close the door, but he honestly doesn’t care. Nigel lays Lee down on his small bed, then turns to the shelf on the opposite wall and grabs his laser cutter. Perching on the edge of the mattress, he takes off the burlap from over Lee’s head.

He’s thinner than he was when Nigel was sold, and the bags under his eyes are a deep purple. Lee’s eyelids flutter, and he begins to stir; the chains clank as he wakes up. When his beautiful eyes find Nigel’s face, Lee starts whimpering, and Nigel realizes he still has on the mask.

“It’s alright, gorgeous,” says Nigel soothingly, ripping the mask off and tossing it over the drawn curtain. He hears it splash into the toilet. “Just me,” he continues. “Just your—”

 _“Nigel!”_ Lee starts to cry, but it’s the good kind of tears now, a different kind of salt to join the crust on his cheek. He reaches for him, and Nigel shakes his head.

“Hang on. Hold still; I’ve got to get these goddamn things off of you.” Lee does, and Nigel starts to cut off all of the metal, even as his own vision blurs, listening to Lee say Nigel’s name over and over, like it’s the only word that matters.

“They’re off, Nigel, they’re off.” Lee smiles as he reaches for him. “Please, _please_ just come here and let me hold you.”

“I need to help you bathe and feed you and—”

“And you need a hug,” and it’s so very _Lee,_ to want to comfort Nigel, even after all this time.

Nigel doesn’t need to be told twice, just lies down in the circle of Lee’s arms, unbuttoning his cloak and throwing it over them like a blanket, because he can’t get close enough to his omega, and Lee can’t get close enough to his.

“It’s been so fucking long,” says Nigel, choked on emotions he hasn’t allowed himself since the moment he was taken away.

“One year, five months, and eight days,” Lee tells him. “Not that I’ve been counting.”

Nigel huffs a laugh, and he hasn’t done that in as many days, either. “I need to—fuck, Lee, I _need—”_

Lee bares his neck to let Nigel scent him. “Like you said: I am in want of a bath.” He shivers and adds, “I don’t think I remember the last one, to be honest.”

“You still smell fantastic." Nigel sighs happily, rubbing over Lee's scent glands with the tip of his nose. "Like freedom.”

“Which you have never, _ever_ explained how that smells.”

Nigel grins against Lee’s skin. “Like you.”

Lee laughs, and turns on his side, laughs more tenderly when Nigel whines at the loss of Lee’s scent glands. But he kisses Nigel, chapped lips and dry mouth, and neither of them can stop grinning, or crying, or running their hands over the other’s body, remapping with palms and fingers.

“You’re lucky no one wanted the sick omega,” whispers Lee.

“I did,” Nigel whispers back. “I do. I always will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[post on tumblr](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/163563406189/summertimeslick-slave-auction-omega-leeomega)]


	17. Day 24—Sex Toys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Homodynamic relationships are still controversial, even borderline taboo. Add in a mutual disinterest for sex and a lack of romantic love, and their partnership becomes sensational. Will doesn’t care; Hannibal’s more than worth all of the whispering offstage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of feelings about ace spec/aro spec Hannigram, but this shouldn't be news to anyone.

Will is used to people talking about him, to the hushed whispers of his coworkers who wonder what’s “wrong” with him. It comes along with living on the spectrum, unfortunately. The gossip and confusion and, even worse, the “inspiration porn” irks Will, but he manages well enough. He certainly isn’t about to apologize for any aspect of himself, especially not for being autistic.

Hannibal, on the other hand, lives in a constant state of irritation, because an alpha in a relationship with another alpha is wrong and unheard of and any number of other judgmental adjectives that assholes can come up with. He hadn’t expected the constant scrutiny; all Hannibal had ever known was being discussed with admiration and awe.

Sometimes, Will worries that the relationship will prove to be too much for Hannibal to cope with. As perfect as they are for each other, there’s only so much negative attention a person can take. Having to frequently explain that no, they’re just extremely good friends and, no, they have no interest in having sex with each other (or with anyone, for that matter) and, no, they have no intention of adopting, and neither of them are the “omega” in the relationship—it’s extremely exhausting. Will is accustomed to rude, invasive questioning; Hannibal bristles at strangers’ curiosity.

The murmuring only gets worse when they request time off for their synchronized ruts. Hardly anything to be done about that, though. At least they have to suffer through them together.

Not that they suffer. Anything but.

It had been Will’s idea to fashion a double-ended fleshlight. Not only did the toy satisfy the need to knot, it meant they could have sex without actually having sex. Establishing a rhythm took several ruts to nail down but, once they did, Will began looking forward to ruts for the first time in his life.

Typically, they lie in bed together on their sides, legs tangled together, holding each other as closely as they can. Both of them enjoy watching the other—most of their intimacy outside of rut involves telling their partner how to masturbate, making them put on a show. But when they’re in rut, Will usually makes Hannibal go first. He has a more active sex drive, never mind that he has to put up with the most bullshit regarding their relationship.

Tonight is no different. The fleshlight is already well-lubricated, ready for them both to fuck. Will’s decided that he wants to watch Hannibal from above, wants to direct him. He squeezes more lube into Hannibal’s waiting hand.

“Start,” Will says, and Hannibal does. His hand moves slowly up and down his cock, his touch light and teasing. Will can feel his own cock begin to stir just watching him, but he won’t touch himself yet. It’s not part of the game.

Soon enough, Hannibal’s thrusting up into his fist, and Will has to hold his hips down to make him stop. “Only your hand,” Will reminds him. Hannibal growls, already frustrated, and Will has to restrain himself from slapping him for it. There’s no real consent when it comes to hormonal instincts; Hannibal might enjoy it, but this is neither the time nor place.

Instead, Will decides to distract himself further at Hannibal’s expense. He slides back to kneel in between Hannibal’s legs, then pushes them up to expose him. Will is torn between telling Hannibal to play with his nipples or fingering himself open.

He ultimately asks, “Do you mind if I open you up for the plug? I want to watch you rub your nipples raw.” Hannibal groans, nodding furiously.

And that’s another activity and dynamic between them that no one would understand, and that Will is ecstatic that they don’t have to explain. Both of them love prostate stimulation, but they only plug each other up during rut. Having special occasion toys makes up for the experience they’ve “lost” by choosing not to have an omegan mate. Will thinks it’s better, watching another powerful alpha submit and fall apart, greater still when they switch and he gets to do the same for Hannibal.

They never take long when they stretch the other open; it’s a prerequisite, a kind of compulsory foreplay. Will avoids Hannibal’s prostate, relishing the impatient whines he makes. These intimacies they share are sexual, and arousing, situational attraction to pleasure and power exchange. Will’s certainly aroused now, but this is about Hannibal for now.

He slips the vibrating plug into Hannibal—“Stop playing with yourself, and I’ll turn it on.”

“Yes, Will,” and he does, hands grabbing the sheets, smearing lube all over the ludicrous-count fabric. “Yours, as well?”

Will smirks as he reaches for the remote. “After we’re settled in. I want to see you squirm for a while.” He flips it on, and Hannibal’s eyes close, mouth hanging open in bliss. “Come on,” says Will, helping Hannibal turn onto his side to face him, “you look like you’re having too much fun.”

Hannibal laughs breathlessly, and that’s the other part of this ritual of theirs that Will loves: it’s one of the few times Hannibal truly drops his guard, that he becomes more human and less stoic alpha. “I—I’ll need your help, please.”

The fleshlight’s within reach on Will’s nightstand, and he grabs it without taking his eyes off of Hannibal. Lining it up is easy enough; Hannibal gets the silicone ass, and Will a cunt. Hannibal groans shamelessly as Will slides it on him, then scoots back enough so that he can push into his own side.

“Good?” he asks.

“Very,” says Hannibal with a sigh. “Your plug?”

_ “God, _ yes.” The anticipation of it makes Will sweat, now that they’re both on equal footing again and he can let himself go, too.

“Are you ready, lovely boy?”

“Please, Hannibal, ple—” Will gasps and jerks, throwing out his arm in search of Hannibal. They grab each other and hold on, both of them moaning as their free hands find the fleshlight and they begin to thrust. The bumps that line the inside of Will’s are so much better than any real omega he could fuck; between the delicious stimulation on his cock and the relentless vibration on his prostate, Will already feels his knot beginning to form.

Hannibal presses the next button on the remote to Will’s plug, and Will fucks the toy in his hand harder. “Oh, how I love to torture you like this.”

“Sadist—shit, _Christ!”_

“Have you never made it to the third setting?” Hannibal always fights his rut to the last, watches Will lose himself, melting, mindless. All Will can do now is stutter and tremble. He holds Hannibal’s gaze, shakes his head, because he hasn’t, and cries out as Hannibal skips the third and goes straight for the fourth.

Will doesn’t want to come, doesn’t care about his knot. All he wants to do is hang here on the precipice forever, safe in his alpha’s hands. But he wants Hannibal to be just as desperate, so with great effort, Will switches Hannibal’s plug to the highest setting. Hannibal snarls and shakes, and now he’s nothing but animal need, jaw snapping and teeth gnashing so hard that Will can hear them.

They fuck, and they knot, and they rest, connected, the toy milking them continuously, orgasm after orgasm. Hannibal takes his hand and laces their fingers together, and they fall asleep like that while they still can, plugs still buzzing away inside them, gleefully tormenting each other.

It’s perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[post on tumblr](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/163611256619/summertimeslick-sex-toys-alpha-willalpha)]
> 
> The next ficlet will be part one of a three-part Bedelia/Will/Hannibal AU. What the heck is that ship called, anyway? I've been going with Begramibal, but only because Bedannigram makes me want to sing "Mahna Mahna" (doot doooooo doot do do). Anyway, I know that's not exactly the most popular ship, but it's also one of the filthiest things I've ever written, so I hope you'll consider giving it a chance. <3
> 
> (Especially seeing that what you just read was pretty goddamn filthy. You've got to be curious.)


	18. Day 19—Arranged Marriage (High Middle Ages AU; 1 of 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alpha Queen Bedelia of Maurier is in need of a Prince Consort. Her chosen omega, Hannibal of Lecter, is in need of his courtesan. Bedelia is determined to make this work, but she never expected to be so taken with her Consort’s beloved William.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This three-part series was so much fun to write that I completely overshot my goal of 1000 words or less per ficlet. Like. Waaaaaaaay overshot.
> 
> Trigger warning for EXTREMELY TRADITIONAL a/b/o dynamics. Also the relationship(s) may appear as situational dubcon, but all parties have consented to the nature of the marriage. There's enforced chastity, too.

The marriage was strategic, as far as Bedelia was concerned. No more, no less. Faced with the ever-growing Verger horde, the kingdom of Maurier needed strong alliances for protection. It was time to think of the future, her advisors told her, and that meant not only securing an elite fighting force, but guaranteeing an heir to the throne should the worst come to pass.

She was known as the Chaste Queen for good reason, though that hardly spared her from her instinctual alphan urges. But Bedelia respected herself too much to take on a concubine instead of a Prince Consort. Marriage, then, would be beneficial for both her subjects and herself—an unmated queen was unnerving to leaders of the surrounding nations. How could a ruler that trusted no mated union be trusted, in turn, to uphold any less-significant contract?

Luckily, Maurier was blessed with wealth, with incense and vineyards, so attracting suitors was no issue for her. The quality of the suitors, however, left much to be desired; omegas were rare enough, never mind omegas of the proper lineage. A few beta suitors brought along an omega servant in hopes of catching Bedelia’s eye. That was even worse than the beta suitor alone.

Bedelia had been near to giving up when the small city-state of Lecter sent a young count. Hannibal was engaging, possessed of an intellect that matched or, perhaps, exceeded Bedelia’s own. Though an omega, Hannibal carried himself like an alpha, all imposition and strong frame and dangerous eyes. He was no simpering fool like the servants who had been offered to her by the other suitors. Hannibal was strong-willed and outspoken, yet also terribly polite.

“What do you have to offer me?” she asked Hannibal, as she had asked all the others.

He smiled, small and secret, as though his emotions were only meant for her, as though she owned him already. “There is little I could offer that has not been promised by your other suitors.”

“Surely there is something singular about you, Hannibal.”

Hannibal tipped his head, just enough to appear obedient, but Bedelia knew better. “There is nothing I would not do to protect what was mine.”

“How very alphan.”

“Did you not wish for an equal?” Hannibal lowered his voice and added, “Aren't you curious as to how I would behave were I yours?”

Bedelia could hear the buzzing whispers of her advisors. “You promise chaos,” she said.

“No. Only danger. Nothing more than intrigue.”

She scoffed. “You would never behave.”

“I'm full of surprises,” said Hannibal, eyes hooded as he added, “madam.”

That night, her advisors begged her to reconsider. Hannibal’s behavior was shocking. Besides, his kingdom was small, and had very little to offer. But Bedelia’s mind was made up; Hannibal was perfect, unnerving as his nature might be, and regardless of strategic arrangements.

When she asked for his hand, however, Hannibal made an insulting request: that he be allowed to bring his courtesan and love-match. Bedelia was quietly outraged—no omega of hers would be granted access to another alpha!—but he asked her to at least meet the man before she refused. It was infuriating, and yet, she acquiesced as though she owned Hannibal already.

Obviously, Bedelia couldn’t enter the guest quarters, so she demanded that the courtesan be brought to her, already planning to dismiss him and claim Hannibal, regardless. When Hannibal’s courtesan turned out to be another omega, Bedelia changed her mind entirely, just as her advisors changed their tune.

Where Hannibal was statuesque, William was beautiful. Like his love-match, Will was unafraid to speak his mind. His language wasn’t nearly as poetic as Hannibal’s, but Will was bright and intuitive. From his accent, Bedelia knew that he was from the common folk. He certainly didn’t act like it, though; Will was like Hannibal’s mirror, having obviously been taught by him. They had the same motions with different intentions, ideally complemented. Together, Hannibal and Will were stunning.

Regardless, none of Will’s traits factored into the arrangement. Only his dynamic mattered, and the fact that he was as fertile as her intended Prince Consort. Bedelia would be foolish to turn down two omegas when it practically guaranteed her at least one heir.

The documents were drawn up that day, and ownership conferred from the ruler of Lecter to Bedelia. Hannibal was hers, which meant Will was hers by extension.

She didn’t see them terribly often, primarily for meals, her weekly visit to their chambers, or when she held court. Until Hannibal’s heat, until they were bonded, their time with each other was limited. Hannibal and Will were both unbearably agreeable with her kingdom's customs, moreso than she had anticipated. Bedelia had chosen Hannibal for his outspoken opinions, and Will for his uncivil tongue, yet neither of them made a fuss when she insisted that they wear the traditional omegan garments. In her throne room, they sat quietly at her feet, draped in soft, translucent silks, nested in pillows and each other’s arms; at the dinner table, there was stimulating conversation as she fed them from her hand—at least, she fed Hannibal, who in turn fed Will.

Bedelia should have put an end to it, quashed the measure of power Hannibal got from essentially being Will’s alpha, but they were simply too lovely to watch. Will sat in Hannibal’s lap, more often than not, head on his shoulder. It was Bedelia’s right to play with them as she pleased; instead, she let Hannibal play with Will, because she quickly learned that, although Hannibal was obedient and ready to acquiesce, he could not truly be controlled.

They were endlessly distracting, which undoubtedly helped Bedelia’s throne room negotiations, what with emissaries being too busy watching her omegas to truly fight for their fair share in any treaty. It was a testament to her strong constitution that Bedelia is able to stay focused, herself. Allies and representatives both treated Bedelia more seriously, having seen her incredible self-control.

She’d never particularly enjoyed the drama of open court, but it quickly became her favorite part of the day. Hannibal always held Will silently, never breaking the required decorum, toying with Will’s nipples through the drape. Will always tried to stay quiet, biting his lip as he squirmed, sometimes for a few hours if the day was particularly long. When Hannibal inevitably unfastened and parted Will’s peplum dress, however, exposing him to anyone who cared to look, Will always lost himself to the pleasure and forgot his place.

Not that Bedelia minded, much to the despair of her advisors.

No, she didn’t care that her Hannibal’s Will was an insatiable little thing. Bedelia loved Will’s helpless moans when Hannibal would alternate between rolling Will’s balls in his hand and trailing his fingertips along Will’s skin. When their eyes met, when the courtroom was empty and Bedelia allowed herself to watch without restraint, Hannibal would play with the plug in Will’s ass; tease Will’s cock through the bars of his cage; drag his fingers around the plug in his cunt, which they weren’t permitted to touch, because she wouldn’t allow it.

Bedelia never allowed them to come. If she had to wait until Hannibal’s heat to claim him, to fuck them both and feel them fall apart beneath her over and over, then they could wait, too.

Not that Bedelia didn’t derive pleasure from their predicament. The weekly oversight of their milking was extremely arousing. She watched her physician massage them with his special wand, listened to their agonized panting, their frustrated whimpers, like so much music, each playing a different instrument. Hannibal, on hands and knees, would hang his head between his arms, watching the slow drip of come from his cock as it strained and throbbed against its cage; toward the end, he would flash his eyes up to hers, his last act of defiance before he smiled and let his careful facade shatter. It was the only time Hannibal truly assumed his rightful place, and Bedelia relished it.

Will, strangely enough, loved being milked. He insisted on lying on his back, canting his hips up for the plug to be unlocked and deflated and removed from his cunt. His moans were desperate, his face always turned to hers, eyes glazed in pleasure. It was Will’s procedure that made her wet, that caused her own cock to harden. When the physician replaced the plug, reknotting him until the following week, Will would move restlessly on the bed until Hannibal came back to him.

Bedelia thinks about it now, listening to the drone of the emissary from Froideveaux, anticipating her weekly appointment with her omegas. Perhaps Will is thinking of it too as Hannibal's teases him mercilessly, because he throws out a hand to ground himself as he struggles to be silent, grabbing Bedelia’s ankle.

The throne room goes quiet as Will gasps, realizing what he's done. No one touched the Queen without her consent.

Bedelia’s chief advisor storms over, jerking Will away, and she knows what is supposed to happen, what she has ordered as punishment to anyone who disobeys and breaks that particular rule. Will looks back at her, pitiful, begging her with his eyes, and she pictures his back broken and red, sore and bleeding, and—

“Stop,” Bedelia says. The advisor does, staring at her in confusion. She smiles as she beckons Will over—“Come here, little pet.”

Hannibal extends his hand, and Will takes it, and then takes Bedelia’s. She pulls Will into her lap, noting the jealousy in Hannibal’s eyes as she does so. Once Will’s settled, Bedelia pulls his drapes aside, making Hannibal watch as she strokes Will through his cage.

“If you cannot control your courtesan,” says Bedelia, “then you hardly deserve to have him all to yourself.” Will laughs into her neck, breathless. Hannibal fumes behind his mask of propriety as the court twitters, his gaze deadly, enough to make her shiver, though not unpleasantly.

The emissary from Froideveaux begins again, but Bedelia isn’t listening. Her omegas have suddenly become more than entertaining diversions for her.

When she watches their milkings later, Hannibal is more submissive than he's ever been, and Will says her name, and Bedelia realizes that she's no longer a plaything, either.

The game has changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[post on tumblr](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/163684648594/summertimeslick-arranged-marriage-alpha)]
> 
> The filth continues as soon as everything comes back from beta! ;D


	19. Day 31—(Fem)preg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that Hannibal’s entered his preheat, the time for his and Bedelia’s marriage and bonding has arrived. Their first time together is, unfortunately, more than lackluster. Until she invites Will to their marriage bed, that is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU ALL FOR THE WONDERFUL COMMENTS! It gave me so much more confidence in my multishipping, especially after the negativity I've received on _[Whisked Away](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7574752)._ I actually feel like I can continue that fic now! Therefore, I owe you awe.  <3
> 
> Now about the change to day 31's prompt. You all know how I feel about labeling mpreg. However, due to the lack of fempreg fics, not to mention general ignorance about how it works, I felt the need to specify it on this particular piece. (You can learn more about fempreg [here at the Fanlore wiki](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Fempreg)!

After Hannibal recognized Bedelia’s dominance, it took only a handful of weeks for him to enter preheat. Bedelia was too busy planning the claiming ceremony and following festivities with her advisors to truly give Hannibal the attention he deserved; not for the first time, she was glad of Will’s presence, especially since Hannibal refused any attendants. Will had always helped Hannibal to dress and prepare for formal occasions, he said, and his claiming would be no different.

Bedelia’s advisors didn’t even try to persuade her where her omegas were concerned anymore, considering the vast majority of both her subjects and Maurier’s trading partners believed that she had two.

The day came, and it was Will who kept Hannibal upright on his horse as they made the traditional journey through the capital city. Will helped him dismount, and caught him as he stumbled, and blotted the sweat from his heat-blushed face in the vestibule of the cathedral. Hannibal stroked Will’s curls, and Will adjusted Hannibal’s crown of white poppies, and they both generally looked smitten with each other.

Bedelia’s favored handmaid Chiyoh confided all of this to her as she fussed with Bedelia’s doublet and hose. “Your court is too skittish to speak against the behavior of your mate,” said Chiyoh, “too afraid of what comes alongside your disfavor.”

“And you are not?”

Chiyoh flicked her eyes up to Bedelia’s in the mirror, but didn’t answer. Instead, she said, “There are three paths for you to take. First, you claim Hannibal and dismiss Will.”

Bedelia averts her gaze. “That isn’t an option.”

“As I suspected.” Chiyoh knelt down to straighten a seam. “Second, you could claim Hannibal, allow Will to remain, but only as a servant, not a courtesan.” When Bedelia said nothing, Chiyoh continued. “Third, you claim them both.”

“And _that_ is impossible.”

“Then I suppose you know where you will walk,” said Chiyoh, shrugging.

At the ceremony, Bedelia felt as conflicted as Will looked.

 

* * *

 

The claiming night isn’t about pleasure, or even performance, but neither she nor Hannibal seem to be feeling much of anything. Hannibal’s skin is entirely flushed, even hot to the touch, and still he resists his heat. Bedelia can’t find it in her to be angry at her omega’s disinterest, because she’s having a patently terrible time, herself. She’s never had sex, and at this rate, may never do it willingly again.

A few more perfunctory thrusts, and Bedelia withdraws entirely. “This isn’t working,” she tells Hannibal.

“I agree entirely.” Hannibal finally relaxes, then rolls over onto his back. His hair is as composed as it was at the ceremony, and that bothers her more than the rest of it. “You very obviously have no idea what you are doing.”

“Tread carefully,” says Bedelia. “I am uneducated in this, yes, but there’s no need to be rude.”

Hannibal bristles. “I’m never rude; I’m only honest.”

She collapses next to him, and they stare at the canopy of the bed together. “I’ve never lain with anyone,” she admits.

“Not even your handmaid?” Hannibal sounds genuinely surprised. “It was my understanding that was part of a handservant’s duties.”

Bedelia shakes her head, pushing her blonde hair from her face, still wavy from her updo for the ceremony. “Being a queen, even as an alpha, entails gathering respect, exuding control, and negating gossip by any means possible,” she explains. “Being known as the Chaste demonstrated an immense measure of self discipline.”

“So you have been taught nothing?” She nods, hand dropping to lie on the front laces of her corset. “Not even to undress properly, it seems.” Hannibal sounds so smug; Bedelia can’t decide whether to be infuriated or flustered.

“I thought it best to preserve our modesty.”

“Dear madam,” and Hannibal props himself up one arm, turning her face gently to look at him, “submitting to being bred, let alone performing the breeding, hardly demands decorum.”

Hannibal’s gaze is steady, but Bedelia can see how dilated his pupils are, how the corded muscle of his neck strains and tenses. “You are in pain,” she says, following a bead of sweat down his temple with her fingertip.

“Yes.”

Bedelia’s chest tightens, but she can only think of one solution. Excusing herself from the bed, Bedelia throws on a robe and strides to Chiyoh’s quarters, just on the other side of her own.

Chiyoh looks confused when she opens the door. “Are you not—”

“We need Will,” says Bedelia.

“You really shouldn’t.”

“I know. But neither of us—” Bedelia can’t even bring herself to say it; thankfully, Chiyoh understands.

“Hannibal is a good match politically,” Chiyoh begins, “yet you are only attracted to his intellect, and he to yours. I have seen your interactions enough to know.” More softly, she adds, “And you both desire Will.”

“Yes.”

“A well-cherished toy is still a toy, my Queen, until you love it. Any plaything can be made dangerous with love.”

“We still need him,” says Bedelia, “but thank you.”

Chiyoh almost seems disappointed, but she leaves to fetch Will all the same. Bedelia walks back to her bedroom slowly; she stops to look at herself in the mirror, fixing her hair. This is wrong, this weakness, this impulsive arousal from the game she and Hannibal play. She wonders sometimes if Will understands how much a chess piece he really is.

“You sent for me, madam?”

Bedelia turns, and there is Will, still dressed in his simple sheath from the ceremony, the kohl around his eyes smudged, as though he tried to wipe it off quickly and then gave up just as fast. His cock is soft in its cage, and the tiny silver chain connecting it to the plugs gleams in the candlelight. She suddenly remembers that they’ve missed their milking for the week. Hannibal will come tonight, though, but she hadn’t considered Will’s own need.

Then again, this night isn’t about his pleasure, either, and her own cock stirs as she considers Will’s continued denial, even though he joins them in her bed.

She says nothing, only holds her hand out to him. He smiles as he takes it, then wider as he sees Hannibal lying among the pillows. Hannibal seems to be finally losing his hard-fought control, running his hands over his skin like he constantly does with Will. When he sees Will, Hannibal whimpers, and Bedelia allows herself a moment of jealousy, knowing that Hannibal does not feel that for her.

Bedelia watches Will climbs onto the bed, drinking in the sight of him crawling up Hannibal’s body. “Show me what to do, little pet.”

“Do you wish to unlock him, madam?” Will asks. “Or shall I?”

Bedelia’s pulse quickens, even as her feelings remain confused. She takes a moment to consider, then plucks the small silver key from its chain around her neck. Tossing it to Will, Bedelia tells him, “Only for Hannibal. There’s no need to release you.”

Will and Hannibal both moan simultaneously; Hannibal’s back arches up from the bed, and Will takes the opportunity to slide an arm underneath him. He unlocks the cage, easing it off of Hannibal’s cock, an impressive feat given Hannibal’s restless thrashing as he succumbs. Bedelia can’t help but join them on the bed as slick finally begins to gush out of her mate as he reaches out for both of them.

“Alpha,” he says weakly, eyes slipping closed.

Will takes Bedelia’s hand and puts it in Hannibal’s. “Here is Alpha.”

Hannibal’s head tosses on the pillow. “Omega?”

“Yes, mostro.” He smiles, taking up Hannibal’s free hand to kiss his knuckles. “I’m here, too. I’m not going anywhere.” Will nudges Bedelia with his elbow, encouraging her to follow his lead, both of them taking Hannibal’s fingers into their mouths one at a time, their free hands melded together to stretch him open.

Bedelia takes Will’s slick-covered fingers and licks them tentatively. Hannibal is sweet and bitter at once, like a scarlet wine. Will grins wickedly, pulling his hand away from her. He smears the slick over Hannibal’s lips, then leans over and kisses it off of him. Hannibal’s hips thrust up, pressing hardening flesh against unforgiving metal, and Bedelia knows this night is going to utterly wreck her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[post on tumblr](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/163716586199/summertimeslick-fempreg-alpha-bedeliaomega)]
> 
> The conclusion posts tomorrow! See you then...


	20. Day 25—Body Worship (High Middle Ages AU; 3 of 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Hannibal pregnant, Will suddenly feels expendable, and Bedelia realizes how much she's come to love them both. Time to make Will understand that he's just as wanted as her mate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, the smutty conclusion...

Four months have passed since the physician confirmed Hannibal’s pregnancy, and hers and his kingdoms both have been nothing but abuzz. Every courier and representative she entertains brings well-wishes and gifts. Hannibal rarely attends, as he’s been ill ever since his heat ended. It’s hardly expected for him, anyway, especially considering old wives predict that Hannibal’s sickness is a sign of an alpha heir. Bedelia doesn’t truly take stock in such tales, though it warms her belly to consider it.

When Hannibal does come to court, Chiyoh helps him in, and assists him in sitting down in the nest of pillows. Will never appears: not at her throne; not at her table; not in her bed. There’s been so much to take care of since the week the three of them spent wrapped up in each other during Hannibal’s heat that Bedelia doesn’t notice, at first. Hannibal stays primarily in her quarters now—it would be unseemly for him not to. There’s no reason for her to visit what are now Will’s rooms.

Bedelia curled up around Hannibal one night, her hand on his belly, only beginning to show. “Better today? Or have you stayed as stoic as ever?"

“I mostly napped,” Hannibal grumbled. “If I sleep, I’m not ill.” She smiled into his shoulder until he asked, “How is Will?

“You would know better than I.”

Hannibal turned in her arms. “I haven’t seen him since I became a practical invalid.” His face was pale, and there was slight bruising around his eyes where he had retched so often, but Hannibal’s eyes themselves were cold. “It was my understanding that you had ordered him away to maintain propriety.

“I did no such thing,” she told him. “Will hasn’t been with me. I assumed he came to take care of you.”

“Then he has rejected me.”

Bedelia frowned. “Why would you say that?”

“Because I am no longer solely his, I suppose. Why else would he not come?”

She knew better than to address the sting of rejection that permeated Hannibal’s scent, or the note of betrayal in his voice. Instead, Bedelia laid there, holding him, until they both fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

“Cancel all of my appointments,” Bedelia says to Chiyoh when she brings breakfast.

“That’s hardly possible.” Chiyoh sets down the tray and offers no further explanation, only pours tea for herself and Bedelia as usual.

“Why not?”

Chiyoh keeps moving as though she hasn't heard her, simply fixing Bedelia’s cup and then sweetening her own. “You are to meet with the Duchess of Katz today,” she finally says after her first sip. “The visit has been scheduled for months now.”

Hannibal begins to stir in his sleep, so Bedelia motions for Chiyoh to join her in the adjoining room. “Tell her my Prince Consort is distressed.”

Chiyoh cocks an eyebrow. “Is he?”

“He is if I say so.”

“I don’t believe you.” She drinks her tea where she stands, poise as perfect as though she were the queen, herself. “Or perhaps it is _you_ who are distressed, my Queen?”

“It’s a pity we’ve been together since childhood,” says Bedelia, trying not to smile into her own cup. “I could have you disciplined for subordinance, otherwise.”

“Regardless,” Chiyoh begins, “as I am certain this is about Will and that you are determined to buck tradition—though I had thought you turned him away following the pregnancy?”

“As did Hannibal.”

“He only permits Sutcliffe into his rooms now to be dutifully milked each week, the doctor tells me. Did you not even think to uncage him?”

Bedelia feels a cold wave of revulsion that she is unused to. “Will wanted to keep it all through Hannibal’s heat. I didn’t know...Chiyoh, why did you say nothing?”

“It's not my job to play messenger between you and your pets.”

“Bring him here,” orders Bedelia, taking Chiyoh’s tea away from her. “Immediately. Throw him out the door if you must.”

Chiyoh smirks, and gives her slight bow, and takes her leave. Bedelia is still trying to rearrange the pillows of Hannibal’s bednest when Chiyoh returns, dragging in an exhausted omega who only vaguely looks like the Will she remembers. The skin around his eyes is as sunken and purple-blue as Hannibal’s, and his hair has grown long, curls more prominent than before. There’s no air of sass around him, nothing of the athletic nymph he was.

She waves Chiyoh out, and holds her arms out to Will as the door clicks shut, but he doesn’t move. He won’t even meet her eyes.

“What’s wrong, little pet?”

Will hugs his arms around himself. “It’s been four months.” Before Bedelia can ask what he means, Will continues, “It’s been four months, and I haven’t had my heat. I know that’s why you let Hannibal bring me, because one of us was bound to give you an heir, even though I’m sure my child would’ve been announced as Hannibal’s, but now...” He chokes on his words, finally looking at her, face stretched in anguish. “You don’t need me. Hannibal lies with you in your bed. I hear nothing from either of you, am neither invited nor sent for. But that's all either of you have ever seen me as, isn't it? A servant. And now I'm useless to both of you.”

Bedelia isn’t one to love anyone or anything, but she is quick to loathe, and she certainly hates herself now. Will has hardly ever been competition, yet he has lived thinking himself in two contests, and now for four months believes he has lost. His stubborn bravado is almost as ludicrous as her own. Perhaps Will is less a mirror for Hannibal and more of a reflection of them both.

“There has been a severe and terrible misunderstanding,” says Bedelia. “Please, Will,” and he startles, glancing back at Hannibal, like he’s never heard anyone say please before. “Please,” she repeats, “come here.” He does, timidly now, so much like the Will she kept from being whipped the first time they touched. Bedelia pulls him into her lap; the movement jars the bed, and Hannibal begins to blink awake.

Hannibal scents the air. “Omega?”

Will begins to cry. “I’m here, mostro,” he says, and Bedelia pushes Will’s hair away to kiss his temple, his cheek, his jaw. Hannibal smiles sleepily, genuine and unguarded, not the way he smiles at Bedelia, but it doesn’t bother her so much now. She lets Hannibal guide Will to lie on his back beside him, and then she lies down on Will’s other side.

“He _adores_ you,” she whispers into Will’s ear as Hannibal leans over and kisses him. Bedelia runs her nails lightly over his chest and side, a series of impulsive designs. “You would do well not to forget that. You needn’t ache in silence and solitude.”

Hannibal’s hand grips Will’s hair, forcibly breaking the kiss, dragging his teeth down the side of Will’s neck, instead. He pants, tiny hitched breaths that only grow more ragged as Bedelia lazily begins to play with one of his pert and perfect nipples. She tugs and pinches, then strokes and soothes, and Will moans, his tears gone as quickly as they came, replaced with the sweet scent of ramping arousal.

“Tell me what he likes, Hannibal,” says Bedelia, even as she moves her hand to play with the other side of Will’s chest. Hannibal’s nibbling his way down Will’s arm, leaving bite marks and sucked bruises in his wake.

“He likes to be _owned,”_ Hannibal tells her with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “He likes to be _tamed.”_

“Only because you're an obscenely possessive show-off,” Will mumbles, only to shrink back toward Bedelia when Hannibal lunges and snaps his teeth in his face. Will’s smile is brilliant. “You’re only proving my point.”

Bedelia cups Hannibal’s cheek in the patronizing way she knows he despises, mostly because it amuses her, but also because it amuses _Will._ Hannibal stares at her dully, near malicious, as though he’d already forgotten in a few short months the numerous avenues down which her cruelty and control could turn.

“This is entirely your fault, you know,” she says, giving Hannibal’s face a fond pat as she turns her attention to Will. “I seem to recall telling you to control your courtesan, Consort mine.” It’s beautiful, the way Will can never seem to decide whether he likes being talked over in this way or not. “I think our William primarily likes to be _seen,_ and only lets you believe that he needs the owning and the taming."

Will’s eyes close as she rubs over his scent glands with her thumb. “I’ll never tell.”

“Correct or not,” begins Bedelia, bringing their mouths excruciatingly close together, “I do love to watch my mate and his pet together.” She drops her hand to rest over Will’s cage; his cock jumps at the contact. “Would you like to come out and play, darling?”

But he shakes his head—”Just touch me,” Will says, “please, madam.” Bedelia watches Hannibal roll Will onto his side, sees him kissing and licking his way across Will’s shoulders, so she leans in and catches Will’s sighs with her mouth. When she decides to stop teasing his poor trapped cock and move her hand, Will grabs her wrist. “This, too, madam. Please.”

“Why would you want to be tortured so?” she asks, even as she begins to rub him through the bars of his cage. Her _own_ arousal feels torturous, her own cock neglected even as there are two omegas in her bed

Will hisses at the touch, but it turns quickly to a moan when Hannibal’s palm begins to stroke down the front of his throat. “I like being held,” admits Will. “It makes m—oh _God,_ Hannibal.” Bedelia watches Hannibal’s grip tighten on Will’s throat as he bites and licks at Will’s earlobes. “My mind goes quiet,” he continues after a brief struggle to recompose himself. “My release is in the denial.”

“Careful, Will,” says Hannibal, sharing a heated look with Bedelia. “Now she’ll know how to punish you.”

“I wouldn’t worry him over it, Consort. You’re much more fun to punish.” Will laughs, then grinds back into Hannibal, making him curse. “Is that your way of making a suggestion, pet?”

“Hannibal hasn’t told you, has he?”

_“Will,"_ Hannibal warns.

But his laugh is only lighter at the warning in Hannibal’s voice. “It’s only fair,” he teases, “if you’re the one to be punished. Your mate, madam,” and Will eyes her conspiratorially, “can only come when he’s being fucked, not when he’s fucking,” and it’s the most obscene phrase Bedelia’s ever heard in her entire life. She doesn’t even bother to confirm it; there’s no need when Hannibal is radiating quiet irritation

The key is in her fingers quickly, hitching Will’s leg up and throwing it over her hips, unlocking and removing the plug from his cunt. “I was only going to make him watch me have you,” says Bedelia, the smell of slick curling into her nostrils as she pushes her way into him, and she leaves the thought unfinished. Will is hot and wet around her cock, squeezed tight as he releases one sharp shocked groan. His eyes are half open as he pants between them, Hannibal reaching over Will’s hip to wrap his hand around Will’s cage and stroke it.

“He can come like this,” says Hannibal. Bedelia isn’t sure if it’s a warning or a suggestion. Coming from Hannibal, it’s likely both. “It takes some effort, of course, but my boy is very capable.”

Her eyes are riveted to Will as she presses the key into Hannibal’s hand. “I’m sure you could come like this, too,” she says, “if you were ever willing to let yourself go.”

Will’s fingers are suddenly tangled in her hair, and then his lips are on hers. Distantly, Bedelia hears Hannibal swearing, but she can’t make out the words. Will’s kiss is nothing like Hannibal’s; it’s unreserved, wild, violent. She tastes blood in her mouth—her own, Bedelia thinks—and Will’s lips are chapped and rough. Behind him, Hannibal growls, a feral sound she’s never heard from her mate, and maybe Will isn’t the feral man in the bed, after all. Will cries out as Hannibal pushes into his ass, and Bedelia can feel her mate’s cock push against her own through the musculature.

They lie there, doing nothing more than feeling how they fit together. Bedelia quietly marvels at the impossibly perfect anatomy of them all, each a rarity of their own dynamic and gender: that a man’s cunt should flow around an alpha’s cock; that a woman’s knot should catch inside of an omega. The smell of them is filthy-sweet, the heat and the touch of them grounding and solid and real, more than worth the two decades spent alone wondering if happiness was a truly tangible thing.

Bedelia moves first—in fact, she’s the only one who does, Hannibal acting as more of an anchor. He holds Will as Bedelia fucks him, caressing his skin, lavishing him with all of the touch he’d thought denied. Bedelia doesn’t understand what he’s saying, the language not her own, but she can taste the salt of Will’s tears between their lips. When Hannibal grabs her hand and drags it along all the hidden pleasurable spots on Will’s body, Bedelia is happy to let him take over, to have him move them together.

In their numerous inequalities, they are found, here, the same.

When she comes, when her knot swells and locks, when Will’s face is red as Hannibal’s robe from overstimulation and pleasure and denial and emotion, Bedelia sees that she and Hannibal are staring at the same spot on Will’s neck. She smiles, carding a hand through Hannibal’s hair. Gently, at first, but as soon as Will lies still between them, his nose pressed into her mating mark, Bedelia strengthens her grip, taking Hannibal’s eyes away from his courtesan.

“Mine,” she says, and Hannibal snarls.

_“Mine."_

Will yawns sleepily between them, “Mine,” and that seems more accurate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [post on tumblr]
> 
> I had such a good time writing Bedannigram (doot doooooo doot do do)! You can definitely be expecting more of this polyship from me in the future. Not necessarily this AU, but definitely these three being ridiculous together.
> 
> Again, thank you for all of your support! <3


	21. Day 26—Oral Fixation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lee has made a demand of his omega for the first time since their bonding. Nigel submits to his alpha's wishes and quits smoking, but it's much harder for him than either of them anticipated. Luckily, Lee has a solution to the problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand we're back!

Lee respects Nigel above and beyond the way most alphas treat their omegas. Nigel had hidden his gender with bravado and suppressants for so long that, most days, he didn’t even feel like an omega. It’s probably why he and Lee got along so well, why his alpha never made him feel subjugated, let Nigel remain the breadwinner; neither one of them was exactly traditional. Lee’s perfectly content to stay at home and play Molly Nestkeeper. Besides, they’d bonded before Lee ever got sick, so their unusual arrangement had never been out of necessity, but mutual agreement.

The only demand Lee has ever made of Nigel during their decade-long bond is a recent development. Nigel came almost a week ago to Lee sitting in front of every carton of expensive imported cigarettes Nigel had, every single one of them slashed to bits.

“You’re going to stop smoking,” Lee had said. It was the first time Lee had ever tinged his voice with dominance outside of Nigel’s heats. “One cancer survivor is enough in this house. I’m tired of you tempting fate. It stops now.”

The past five days, therefore, have been an _absolute fucking nightmare._

Nigel has been—well, _had_ been, he supposes—smoking a pack a day at minimum for longer than he’s known Lee, maybe even since he was a teenager, though Nigel’s never really kept track. Recently, it’s been closer to two, and three on the really bad days. The need for substitute oral stimulus is driving Nigel out of his mind. He’s found himself chewing his nails, eating peppermints until he’s sick to his stomach, even trying to chew gum, which he fucking hates.

Lee told him to try a patch, but Nigel knows that, quitting cold turkey from such a long and heavy habit, it wouldn’t do anything but make him want more nicotine. Besides, it’s the actual action of putting a cigarette between his lips and dragging and blowing out smoke that’s addictive to Nigel. He isn’t getting the shakes from withdrawal; Nigel’s getting them from needing to do something with his hands.

“The first three days are the hardest,” Darko had assured him. For Nigel, it just keeps getting worse.

His concentration is so shot to shit that Nigel decided to call in sick—he owns the goddamn chain of pawn shops; it’s about time he took some leave. Let Darko handle the business for a bit. He deserves the headache after lying to Nigel about quitting smoking becoming progressively easier. Nigel lays around the house all day chewing the fuck out of whatever he can find: popsicle sticks, pens, his lips, his own fingers.

That’s how Lee finds him when he gets home from his day of yoga and meditation. The look of sympathy and near-pity on his face makes Nigel want to snap. Instead, he whines, a pitiful sound wrenched out of his gut and the omegan part of his brain that he can’t always shut off.

Lee looks at him for a minute before dropping his mat and bag where he stands and walking over to the couch. He pushes Nigel’s legs off so he can sit down beside him. Nigel expects Lee to start trying to guide him through breathing exercises, which is inevitably going to end with Nigel pouring himself a drink and sulking for the rest of the afternoon.

Instead, Lee unties his yoga pants, and pushes them down his legs along with his underwear.

“Get a pillow,” he says to Nigel as he takes his pants all the way off. “Come sit in front of me. We’re going to train your brain out of needing constant stimulus.”

“What, by turning me into a fucking cockwarmer like some common house omega?”

Lee smiles. “Wouldn’t you rather crave something sexual over a cigarette?” he asks. “Wouldn’t it be nicer to go all day without needing to exercise your jaw because you know you’ll get to later?”

There’s a war between Nigel’s need and his dignity. “We didn’t negotiate this into our vows,” says Nigel, hating the quiver of innate desire in his voice. “You promised to let me keep alpha-betaing my way in the world outside of my heats.”

“I’m not proposing to treat you any differently, Nigel. I’m offering you help. Comfort.” Lee reaches out to Nigel, pulls his chewed-up thumb from his mouth like he’s a child. “Let me make you feel better. Please.”

Nigel swallows. It does sound nice, Lee’s proposal, and Nigel’s getting older. His omegan urge to serve is getting more difficult to ignore. Maybe that’s why he’s been hitting the cigarettes so much harder lately. He takes a shaky breath, grabs the big throw pillow out from behind his back, and eases his way down to sit between Lee’s legs.

“There we are,” says Lee, combing his fingers through Nigel’s hair. “There’s my good bear.”

It’s easier than Nigel thought it would be, accepting the praise, letting Lee pull his head closer to his groin, opening his mouth to hold Lee’s cock. He doesn’t feel as debased as he thought he would, and the compulsion to suck and lick that Nigel’s had all day is slowly satiated. The quiet sighs of satisfaction Nigel pulls from Lee are even better, a balm for Nigel’s frayed nerves.

This isn’t so bad, he guesses.

Nigel finds himself sliding further down Lee’s cock as time passes, trying to relax and not gag himself. Warming his alpha is so _good_ that Nigel wishes he had stopped resisting himself sooner. There’s a trickle of drool slipping out the corner of his mouth; before Nigel can wipe it away, Lee does it for him. More soft words—“You’re doing so well,” and, “I’m so proud of you,” and, “Thank you.” Nigel’s sinking into the sensation, almost floating, nothing existing but the hot weight on his tongue and the scent of Lee’s skin.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed by the time Lee wakes him up. Lee’s cock has fallen from Nigel’s mouth; he’d fallen asleep with his face nestled against the base. But he doesn’t feel embarrassed, at all. Nigel’s relaxed, and peaceful, and warm.

“I told you I’d find a meditation you liked,” Lee says, still stroking Nigel’s head. Nigel is too content to flip him off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[post on tumblr](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/165624893364/summertimeslick-oral-fixation-alpha-leeomega)]
> 
> Written and published to cheer up my dear friend [Llewcie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Llewcie/pseuds/Llewcie/works). <3

**Author's Note:**

> [[about me](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/about)] [[tumblr](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/)] [[twitter](https://twitter.com/shiphitsthefan)]
> 
> Kudos and [comments](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/profile) validate my existence. <3


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